Our Dear Gravel Wars
by TheRavenBlade
Summary: It was never nice to be sent to your death, and the Engineer had the honor of suffering this first hand. Due to a mistake that ruined his life, the Texan must fight as a mercenary within the Gravel Wars, without question. But he's a moral man in a corrupt world, and it's a long time until his debt's paid. The road's betrothed to hardship, that's certain. AU younger Scout & Pauling
1. Feet in blood

**A/N: WARNING; TO ALL PEOPLE WHO HATE AU'S AND STORIES GENERATED FROM BORED, MOODY TEENAGERS, LEAVE RIGHT NOW! BACKSPACE WHILE YOU STILL CAN! FLEE, TO THE VIRTUAL HILLS! FLEE! **_**FLEEEEEEEEEEEEE!**_

**Kay, 'bout seventy-seven percent of you gone; Hello, readers foolish enough to stay! How are we doing on this fine day/night? Welcome to this... ...Whatever this is! :P**

**Right, before you take a chomp outta this, there are a few things you gotta know before jumping into the story;**

**One, this is gonna be LONG as HELL. I'm talking, like, maybe a hundred chapters. Maybe more. I'm not sure. I just know there will be a-LOT of writing for me to do on this. Just a fair warning if you were expecting, like, twenty chapters, or something. Two, this**** is about 100% AU. The characters are about six years younger than in cannon, and are their cannon ages by the end of the series. They're still gonna be the same characters with a bit of dark mixed in, (a few with different eye colours, because I'm just weird like that XD) but I will change a couple around. I won't do stupid stuff, like, "HEY! GUESS WHUT, SCOUTZ A GURL HERE FOR TEH SAKE OF A LUV TWIANGLE!" But maybe something like, "Hey, Scout starts out at a younger age with a radically different personality than he has in the cannon series. This is for the sake of character development and building connections to the other characters, as well as fueling some plot-threads. He will eventually reach what he's like in the cannon series a tad bit before the mid-point." There will be a few OC's, but none of them will be _main_ characters at any given point. Also… This isn't RED vs. BLU clones all day… This is a giant war, with no RESPAWN and other Mercs instead. But, as previously stated, the nine (ten, if you count Miss Pauling) we know and love are always the main focus. There is also n****o yaoi. A bit of bromance, maybe, but no yaoi.**

**And finally… I LIEK CATZ! :3 (WTF)**

**Anywho… You can take all that and **_**not**_** puke your guts out from the lack of loyalty to the original series? :D Proceed! I hope you find it ok, and at the very least will refrain from getting your angry mob supplies and hunting me down.**

**This is how I'm beginning this series, and... UUUUGGGGHHHH, I hate this chapter. There ain't no hook, I find it VERY boring... But it's an introduction, and that's the one part of life you can't control, I guess.**

_..._

_~Tamaulipas Mexico, March 3, 1962_

The piercing rattling of the hundreds of metallic wheels carrying the weight of the mighty RED Express was the only sound to be heard through the dead silence of the dystopian wilderness. If one looked past the tidal waves of powdery, vast golden blankets, they'd see it rushing through the winds, smoke dancing from the exhaust-pipe of the engine as it drove along the steel railways provided to it. Coated in a black shade with finely brushed streaks of crimson paint patterned across its cars, it obediently ran its course with the force of the behemoth it was, sailing through the wasteland of gentle breezes and sweeping, miniature mountains of sand. The mighty expresses' numerous passengers either lay asleep within its cars, roughhousing, or simply gazing out the glass to the world outside, where the luminosity of the ethereal full-moon had began to poke itself from out behind the clouds, engulfing the endless seas of archaic rock and smooth, golden shores in a ghostly white shade, bathing the world in an airy, other-worldly atmosphere. A new sound suddenly called out from the farther regions as coyotes welcomed the moon with their haunting howls, and new shapes formed across the horizon as the prickly cacti's pink blossoms unveiled themselves to the pure, gentle glow of the radiant sun's softer, ever-changing sister. As the clouds dispersed, little specks of silvery light appeared in the skies as stars began to gently glow against the ebony curtain they were lodged in, forming thousands of entrancing constellations and twinkling in their subtle magnificence. The whole desert was suddenly full of the night's beauty, and the usually barren landscape practically glowed with the celestial harmony of an exquisite painting.

Would've been the most beautiful thing the Engineer had ever seen from the seat of a train, had he most probably not been about to die in the next twenty four hours.

Instead, the despondent man let out a gruff sigh in current state of unhappiness as he glumly slumped against the stiff red bench inside the booth, watching as the desert sped on by with its blurring, counteracting shades of white, black and gold blending together, all by himself.

...Well, he was sort of by himself. There was a lanky Australian lying asleep face-down on the bench across from him, hat drooped over his head as if to shield it from the moonlight. He didn't know the man's name, but he knew he was an interesting case the moment he'd entered the booth, bloodied up, drunk, and filthy, a plastered smile on his face as he staggered in, carrying a small plate with a massive mackerel on it. He hadn't spoken a word, but he put the fish on the windowsill and collapsed face-first on the bench, telling the Engineer, _'don't lay a hand on the fish or else,'_ before passing out. Despite his eccentric debut into the Engineer's memory, by this point, the Australian had sort of blended in with the background, so the Texan paid him no heed. Instead, he gave his attention to the massive silhouette of the Stronghold getting closer with every rotation of the barium wheels beneath them. Their arrival would be in about... Ten or so minutes? He couldn't tell. He was too tired to do the math in his head, and too stress-ridden to try to sleep so he could recover his energy. No sir, there was nothing for a man of science like him to do but sit tight against the rigid cotton of the bench, hold his head in his hand and gaze moodily out the slightly smudged glass of the booth to the thousands of pastel constellations glistening up above.

"Might be the last time I see 'em," he muttered to himself.

He sighed through his torment again. Everything had figuratively gone up in smoke for the Texan, all because of one stupid, asinine mistake that he'd never forgive himself for, regardless as to how many years – or days, in this case, – he lived with it. He'd long forgotten the aftereffects of the mistake, just the memory of being tossed all over the place – The memories had all sort of blended into a nonsensical, foggy, foul-flavoured mental milkshake by this point – So he didn't bother to reflect on them. Long story short, after his third day of solitary confinement in a row, some representative of a company had walked in to meet him, and offered him a deal. Stay in there as a prisoner for the rest of his life, or join a mysterious organization called Reliable Excavation and Demolition until the higher-ups of said organization felt his debt had been paid in full, and go into the world a free man. Seeing as how he'd had no other option at that point of time, the man had blindly agreed.

The second he'd entered the training hall, instantly regretted it.

The company, Reliable Excavation and Demolition, was really a massive, mysterious Organization warring with some other equally massive, mysterious company called Builder's League United. And that meant literally. Both sides hired thousands of Mercenaries and Prisoners to work for them, and had engaged the other side in a war that, to the Engineer's limited knowledge on the subject, had been going on for years. When he had arrived, he had been told to train for a Class. After a lengthy explanation he'd learned little to nothing from, he'd gathered that there were apparently many Classes to choose from, each basically being a different skill-set. You could only select one, and learn to become a master at it. There were loads of options to select, but due to his skill in mechanics, he selected the Engineer Class. He'd gone through the basic training within a month, and had passed alright. Flying colours with the machinery itself, low marks in everything else. Afterwards, he'd been sent out to join a, 'Unit,' leading to where he was now. Units, as he'd been told, were groupings of nine people from different Classes, randomly selected in a balanced matter, and expected to do assignments together as a team. This sounded fine and dandy, and the Engineer thought so at first, too, before he realized that most people in this place were made up of either criminals, or bailed-out basket cases from mental hospitals. He could only mentally shiver in foreboding at the thought of placing his life in hands of cutthroats. If only he hadn't made that damn mistake...

With these churning thoughts of guilt and regret, along with the smallest traces of hope and slightly less hope, his hands gripped his knees in a small attempt to comfort himself, like squeezing something would help him change his odds of being slaughtered like a pig. Call it typical, but the Texan wasn't really very keen on dying.

"Damn," he whispered. He was a dead man. There was nothing humanly possible he could do aside from pray for the best. Pray and fail. The stuffy air of the train car was almost suffocating, heavy, invisible hands pressed on him and making it difficult for him to inhale amidst the chaos in his head - when a quiet snort echoed through the booth and caught the Engineer's attention. He looked over to the source of the sound, it being the sleeping Australian, who of which had begun to stir.

"My bloody 'ead," groaned the Aussie as he pushed himself upwards off the bench.

"...Uh... ...How're you doing?" asked the Engineer, doing what he could to be polite, like how his mother had taught him as a young'un.

The Australian looked over to the Engineer with confusion, hazily green eyes squinted, and filled with bewilderment. After about a minute of adjusting to his surroundings, he finally spoke.

"...Whot happened?" he asked, tugging his hat to shadow his irises, "How... How drunk was oi?"

The Engineer shrugged. "Um... Ah don't know. You puked a little outside the booth and after some ramblings, you collapsed on th' bench and passed out. You've been asleep fer the last... Five or so hours?"

"Huh," murmured the Australian, "Bloody booze... You didn't eat moi fish, did'ja?"

"Nope," assured the Engineer, "Still right where y'all left it."

This seemed to please the hung-over Aussie, so he sat himself up, took the sunglasses off his wide-brimmed hat and slipped them over his eyes, muttering something about how bright it was when the lights were in fact quite dim, and took out a pack of cheap cigarettes.

"You... You smoke?" the Australian offered, his calloused and scarred fingers holding one over to the Texan. The Engineer shook his head.

"No, no," he stated, "Tried one when I was eleven, and hated it. Never picked one up again."

"Huh," mused the lanky man, taking out an old refillable silver lighter, "Pr...Probably fer the best, yeah?"

"Yup," somberly grinned the Engineer, "Guess so."

The Australian nodded in comprehension and said nothing else. Instead, he lit the cheap tobacco, leaned back into the inflexible bench fabric, and released dignified curls of smoke from his lips, sending greyish white vines of near-transparent wisps to float out the ajar window. With a brief sigh in content, he tipped back his akubra, eyes moodily staring off into the far distance behind their bright orange safeguards, a look of vacancy illustrated across his tanned face. The Engineer had to wonder how the man was showing no signs of fear. All he was doing was smoking away in his seat complacently, like he was on a Sunday ride to a bowling alley. There was something admirable about that, but the Engineer had to remind himself that it could be insanity for all he knew. While something inside him told him to ask the man questions, he didn't want to listen to that voice. He was too nervous for conversation at the moment. Instead, he looked out the window to find the Stronghold a kilometer away. Fifteen seconds later, that distance was covered and the train made an abrupt, screeching halt, giving nearly every passenger aboard a firm jerk out of their seats. The Engineer was shaken, but despite shifted out of his comfortable position, and his hardhat dipping over the tip of his goggles, he was fine. His Australian friend on the other hand, tumbled clear onto the steel floor, and his cold plate of fish tumbled off the window ledge in a spectacular fashion. The climax of the unintentional performance was the plate shattering next to the man, and the stiff fish plonking on his head with a _clunk _sound. The lanky assassin frowned as he got onto his elbows.

"Oi heard rumors you can use the mackerels here as weapons," grumbled the Australian, taking the stiff fish off his head, "And oi believe 'em. Look at this bloody thing, oi've seen rocks softer than this," he growled, shaking the immobile, rock-hard fish to emphasize his point. The Engineer unwittingly let a chuckle escape his lips as he watched the quiet, ranting Australian lie on the floor. He would have loved to laugh some more, but he had places to be. With a slightly less heavy, but still weighing heart, the Texan gathered up his few belongings from off the floor, consisting of a backpack, a suitcase, and a guitar case, and turned to leave. At the last second, he took a glance to his acquaintance, who was now stomach down on the floor, his hat obscuring his face and his fish hanging loosely in his limp hand. His only sign of being alive existed through his breathing. If the Engineer didn't know any better, he'd say the man was asleep again.

"Y'all comin'?" asked the Engineer. Tiredly propping himself on his elbows, the Australian tipped back his hat and looked up at the stouter man's face.

"Moi 'ead doesn't hurt as much when it's on the floor, but oi guess oi really should," he murmured, pushing himself up, grabbing his duffle-bag, and leaving the fish behind. He was about to leave, when all of a sudden, his eyes widened in alarm and annoyance.

"Crap," he scowled as he went back to the bench. The Engineer leaned in the doorframe, confused as he watched his unusual co-worker shuffling through the cushions with urgency, until suddenly, the Australian pulled out an old, yet well kept, Sniper Rifle.

"There we go!" chirped the Aussie, holding the forty-five inch tool of death, "Aion't she a beaut?"

The Engineer bit back the urge to scream for help against a crazed gunman, and instead gave a nervous nod in approval.

"Erm... When'd y'all go about hiding that in the bench cushions?" asked the Engineer, fake smile etched on his visage to mask his unease.

"Some point," shrugged the Aussie, slinging the weapon over his shoulder, "Well, better get a move on."

The Engineer grimaced and stepped a couple feet back, still collecting himself as the Australian shoved past him and roamed down the corridor of the car, hands casually shoved in his pockets as his old shoes tread the steel. The Engineer bit his lip. How could a man possibly be so calm about being sent to war? He shivered as he gathered his thoughts, but ceased the action as a question popped into his cranium at the sight of the limp fish on the floor.

"Um... What about the mackerel?" He asked. The Engineer's response was a raised eyebrow.

"Mackerel?" questioned the Australian, "Oi bloody hate mackerel. Why would oi eat one?"

The Engineer decided to drop the subject, as the Australian was still clearly muddled. With this in mind, and a lanky Australian swaying up ahead, he followed his new 'friend' through the creaky metal door out of the train car and stepped into RED Stronghold's moonlit Train Station.

The Engineer's initial reaction was only to gape at how colossal it was, and at how packed it was. The Station was massive, set up around the Stronghold in a giant circle formation, its floors forged of a powerful cement that practically gleamed in the moonlight, and trains of all sizes looming around its curved edges, all with places to go and be. Destination upon destination lay before the former shut-in, each leading in practically every orientation, be them entrances to the Stronghold, ways to reach people, or routes to other trains, which in turn led to even more far-off locations. What stuck out the most though, were the people. The amount of Mercenaries walking about in the Station alone was around the same total number of people residing back home in Bee Cave, a rowdy lot whom he'd spent most of his days hiding from their number to begin with. It was a change in atmosphere to say the least. Bewildered, and overwhelmed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that informed him which path to take.

_CLASS; ENGINEER_

_UNIT: #9133311 TF2. Rendezvous station #338_

_OVERSEER: S. Pauling._

_Care to explain how I can get to the damn rendezvous station, paper? _he thought with annoyance as he shoved it back into his overall's breast pocket. The Texan did what he could to ease himself, however, as he knew his frustration had no place here. He knew his best option would be getting a move on, and to do his best to find the damn station. Fighting past aggravation, and the jellylike sensation in his kneecaps, the Engineer forced his legs forward. ...Then, after twenty seconds, he realized how hard it was to focus on this action and keep his sense of direction at the same time. To be in this crowd of people was like being a child lost in a field of wheat. The Engineer was already a bit shorter than the average person, being only five foot three, so entering such a mass of people - hundreds of them - and most of them being quite a bit taller than him, was a bad situation. He tried to weave his way through, but regardless to what he did, he just couldn't see where he was going.

To top it off, it had been only forty seconds before he'd almost gotten himself killed.

It had been sudden. Some guy was pushing everyone out of his way, and had accidently pushed him. The force of the blow had sent him stumbling across the cement and crashing into some other man, who of course responded by immediately shoving him to the floor and pointing a masterfully crafted, stainless steel revolver in his face, all before the Engineer could even speak.

"You, monsieur, are now _dead,"_ scowled the man as he removed the safety of the firearm, "Promise not to bleed on my suit, and I'll kill you quickly."

The Engineer shuddered under the barrel of the gun, watching its barrel in dread as it remained directly aimed at his forehead. The man holding the firearm was lean, a good five inches taller than the Engineer, and dressed like he was late for a lavish party as opposed to someone instigating a blood bath, if judged by his unsoiled crimson tuxedo and classy, leather dress shoes. A thin, red balaclava covered his head, and a look of both authority and cold unfriendliness shone through his silvery eyes, both glinting dangerously in the moonlight as his index finger gently caressed the trigger. The Engineer shivered in intimidation as he trembled under the weapon. What struck him as the craziest part was that nobody seemed to care about his predicament.

"Holy...!" he gaped, "Ah didn't mean-! S-Sorry, ah-"

"You got _dirt, on my suit," _scowled the assassin, berating the soon-to-be-dead Texan in a French accent, _"'Sorry,'_ shall buy you NOTHING. Any final words before I end your revolting life, mon stocky friend?"

The Engineer was about to plead for mercy, before he was suddenly cut off by a heroic, hung-over voice somewhere in the distance.

"Yeah, oi got a few final words... How about, _'Fuck off'_?" called the Australian as he clumsily walked over to them. Before the Engineer could say anything, the Australian took out what was easily the biggest knife he had ever seen and pointed it at the French assassin's neck. The assassin slowly withdrew the revolver slightly and looked calmly at the Australian with a hint of curiosity thrown in.

"Is zhis quivering idiot your friend?" questioned the assassin as he turned back to the Engineer. The Australian squinted over to the Engineer, then turned his attention back to the Frenchman.

"...Meh. Not really," he said, "But lookit 'im. He's a newbie. Poor bastard hasn't seen a single battle yet. Last tiome oi checked, killing newbies is sort of frowned upon by higher-ups. Seems like a lot of trouble for something so mindless, don't it?"

The Frenchman frowned, but put away the revolver with a small roll of his eyes. "If it will shut you up, fine. I'll leave zhe fool alone. For both your sakes, 'owever, I'd strongly advise to _never_ cross me again." With that, the Frenchman left. The Sniper grumbled to himself, adjusted his hat and puffed out a final cloud of smoke from his dying cigarette.

"Wanka," he scoffed as he put out the cancer-stick under his heel. The Aussie then turned to look down to his shivering acquaintance with a look of easiness, "You alrioght there, mate?"

"Y...Yeah," mumbled the Engineer as he pushed himself off his back and into a sitting position on his firm knees, "D... Did you and that guy back there know each other...?"

"Nope," affirmed the Aussie.

"Huh, well... ...Thanks, partner..." stuttered the Engineer, "...Why did he try to... Y'know... Kill me... And why didn't anyone else-?"

"-Help ya? Well, gee, you're only surrounded by criminals, mercs and basket-cases... Y'know, the blokes that make up about seventy percent of the _murdering_ demographic. Why _wouldn't_ they trip over each other to help ya?" sarcastically asked the Sniper, "Sarcasm aside... Mate, these blokes are mostly the types who're willing to sell their own mums out on the street for ten cents. People 'ere ain't always like that, but thinking you'll be ok after pissing someone off is the type of thinking that gets you killed."

"...Oh..." murmured the Engineer, "So... They all gonna kill me if I screw up?"

The Sniper shook his head in a reassuring manner. "Not all of them. That bloke back there was probably just 'aving a bad day."

"...Ha... Ah... Ah guess ah'd best hope everyone else is more cheerful then, huh?" weakly chuckled the Engineer.

The Sniper smiled. "Yeah, was hard for me ta wrap moi 'ead around when oi first got here, too," he said, offering a dirty, fingerless-gloved hand to help the Texan up, "You start to ignore them after a while, though."

The Engineer smiled as he accepted the assistance and let the marksman pull him up. Finally, someone who wasn't a complete nutcase. This was good. But then, as he got on his feet, he remembered where he had to go. A frown stretched across his features as he noted the flood of people still wandering around.

"Well... It was nice meeting you... Mister...?"

"We aion't supposed ta share names," reminded the Sniper, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "You just call me Sniper, and oi just call you Engineer. It's a mild rule. Keeps people from getting too close."

"Oh... Ok..." mused a doubtful, yet accepting Engineer, "Well, ah gotta find mah Station and get a handle on whatever the hell's gonna happen. That is, if ah can get past this crowd..."

"Ya got yer paper? Oi've memorized the Stations here. If ya let me see it, maybe oi can help you."

"Sure, take it," said the Engineer as he handed it over. The Sniper took it, uncrumbled it and smoothed out the wrinkles.

"Nervous when you got it?" he asked with a dry laugh.

"Yup," weakly answered the Engineer.

"Rioght, so you gotta find..." he trailed off as he studied the paper with an incredulous look.

"Uh... What?" asked the Engineer.

"...We're on the same Unit," he murmured in disbelief.

"No way!" cried the Engineer, relieved at the prospect of having at least one mostly-sane person on his side, "Think of the possibilities!"

"...Oi guess it was a good thing oi saved you then, huh?" mused the Sniper, "Well, let's find this Pauling character, and meet the rest of the oafs we're gonna be stuck with."

"Hey, Snipes... If ah can call y'all that-"

"Go on ahead."

"Right... Why'd y'all help me back there anyhow?" asked the Engineer, "Y'all barely know who I am. We don't even know each other's na-"

A gunshot resounded from far away, making the Texan flinch and instinctively turn to where the sound originated from. He expected everyone to do the same, but all the people did was continue moving along like everything was ordinary. The confusion rose as a warm pat on his shoulder came from his new 'friend,' causing him to turn, and face a casual smirk housing overly sharp canines and slightly amused hazel-green eyes.

"Well, 'cause y'didn't eat th' mackerel, that's why."

The Engineer stared at his calm friend, highly confused. "Wait... Don't you hate mackerel?" he asked. But his words fell on deaf ears, as the Sniper retracted his hand and was already beginning to walk ahead of him. The stocky Texan frowned as started his pace behind.

"So, uh... Y'know anything about Units, Overseers, or anything about this, 'Pauling,' fella?... Or lady, since we don't know?" huffed the Engineer as he caught up to his friend.

The Sniper looked over to him with an expression of thought, before chuckling.

"Blimey, are you a newbie," he snickered, "Didn't they explain this stuff to you in basic?"

"Uh... Too nervous ta listen?" chuckled the Texan, "Anyway, ah... Ah know about Units, but do Units tend to be _good, _or...?"

"Jitters. Rioght, look; Ya gotta remember, everyone here is a person, and each person varies from another," he explained, "Oi can't guarantee anything, but in my personal experience, people on Units get along alright, but never get too close, since ya never know when they're gonna die."

The Engineer felt a shiver through his rigid muscles. "...Makes sense..."

"As for yer second question, Overseers also depend on the person," explained the Sniper as he inelegantly adjusted his shades, "Overseers gotta be ridiculously organized, and know all the ups and downs about computers, as well as other things that... Oi didn't really bother listenin' to. They're in charge, and they ain't supposed to get cozy with their Unit. So, naturally, they're usually some of the most stuck-up wankas you'll ever meet, 'cause they know SO bloody much about computers and tripe instead of important things, lioke how to stay alive."

"Huh."

"'Huh,' is right. And since they're in charge, to kill an Overseer is a one-way ticket to the fioring squad. This makes them even more annoying, because they tend to flaunt that," growled the Sniper, clenching his fists, "Sometimes, ya just wanna strangle the little bastards _so badly..."_

"So, they all suck, then?" continued the ill at-ease Texan before the Australian did anything violent.

"Not always," assured the Sniper, "Just ninety percent of the tiome. I've never had any real problems with Overseers moiself – Oi bloody hate 'em, don't get me wrong – But if you stay in line, they might ignore you. Lioke oi said before; depends."

"Right," comprehended the Engineer as they made their way to the #300s section, "So, just follow orders, without doing anything stupid?"

"That's the gist," aloofly answered the Sniper, before wincing at the pain worming in his cranium, "As for question two, oi've heard of a Pauling somewhere, but oi can't remember where oi was at the tiome, or what was said about the person."

"Huh... Well-" the Engineer trailed off as the sign of station #338 approached. A small smile came to his face. The station. His ticket out of the crowd, AKA, the frying pan.  
...Of course, the poor Engineer had forgotten the last part of that phrase.

"Ah'm going on ahead," he smiled. The Aussie shrugged.

"Alrioght. Try not to die."

With a quickly concieved forced laugh and somewhat increased speed, the Engineer's boots scuffed along the cement as he made his way over to the station, the Sniper lingering behind a few feet at his steady pace. The Texan's hands were dripping with cold, fearful sweat as they clenched and unclenched together from within his overall's pockets whilst he moved forward. It was suddenly now, now after walking as long he did along the cement, that he realized how damn chilly the night's air was, and how viciously it bit at his face exposed lower arms. He took a note of how hard and fast his heart was thumping against his ribcage, and grimaced at his increasing fear. He couldn't back down, though. He kept telling himself that his fear had no place here. He had to move forward.  
...Not like the idea of running like a coward into the wilderness wasn't increasing in appeal, mind you.

The station #338 was just like every other station lining the rim of the Stronghold. A small section, set up like a small pie slice among thousands of equally proportioned ones. Each had the same row of three wooden benches, the same cement, the same proportioned wooden sign, its only difference from the others being the number inscribed in the bolted plaque and the odd people already gathered.

Standing tall near the bench was a rather muscular man in short, red trench coat and dusty black slacks. A belt lined with three, shining grenades attached to a stitched belt hung over his brawny figure and an old, ridiculously oversized helmet sat drooped over his eyes, making it impossible to see his face from the bridge of his nose and up. His mouth in a straight line, and muscles coiled together, he seemed to be standing on alert, despite the fact that there was nothing to kill, or any real threats lingering about.

Then there was the man on the bench next to him. A dark-skinned gent, who was drunk out of his mind. He just sat there, singing off-key in slurs and garbles about things he couldn't comprehend, and barely processed. At first, the Engineer was appalled, (who wouldn't be upon learning their life was in the hands of a drunk) but then, found he was hit with pity upon seeing that the man only had one eye. Who knows what that guy had been through to lose something as precious as an eyeball? His initial distaste left quickly. That poor bastard.

He looked to the drunk's right. There, sat easily the biggest man the Engineer had ever seen. He was a bear of a man, at least seven feet tall, with arms the width of trees and faded blue eyes that practically screamed his experience in the field. His head was bare, his legs stubby, and his large hands lay wrapped around the steel of a ridiculously big Mini-Gun that was about the length and width of the Texan's shoulders to his hips. The man was currently cleaning the weapon... Eerily affectionately, with a laced rag, and murmuring comforting words to it in a foreign language. Quickly, he focused on the next person...

And just gaped in shock.

She was a short lady, around his height, with inky black hair that sat loosely in a bun behind her. Her ebony eyes were partially veiled by cat-eye glasses, and her petite figure was clothed in a buttoned-up purple shirt along with a matching skirt that went down to her knees, plain black shoes concealing her feet. She held a clipboard against her chest and a pen cap in her teeth, standing amongst killers with her bright, black eyes scanning about the station with an odd mix of intention and cheer.

That wasn't what caught his attention, though.

It was the fact she looked barely a day over seventeen.

"It is a strange thing, is it not? To see a child in a position such as hers..." cooed a voice from behind him. The Engineer jumped in fear, and turned quickly to the voice, and felt his eyes widen upon doing so. Sweat dripped down his skin, and his mouth went dry.

It was the assassin from before. The Engineer's heart hammered in his chest, fear and rage boiling deep inside him. What was this psycho doing here?! Come back to kill him again, now that his friend wasn't around?! ...He eased himself a little, though, upon seeing that his masked acquaintance didn't seem that intent on murder. He seemed more refined than anything, intent on making polite conversation. Still, the man had once pointed a gun to the Engineer's face, and would've surely blown it off had his Australian friend not interfered. The Texan kept his guard up as he got into a battle stance, trying to hide his slight shaking. Apparently, he did not hide it well, as the assassin seemed to catch onto this fear quite quickly and scoffed.

"Oh please, I will not kill you," he snorted, "Stop quivering like a coward."

_Wha...?_

"Y'all seemed ta change yer mind about... Killing me real quick..." murmured the Engineer, still very much on edge.

"I hadn't known zhat you and I were on the same Unit," he simply shrugged, "Ah well, Ce la vie."

The Engineer stared at him, mouth agape. ...Had he misheard somehow?

"...Beggin' yer pardon, but-"

"Believe me, I hate zhe information as well," scowled the assassin, "However, we do not create the rules. You and I can only be professional about zhis."

"Uh..." muttered the Engineer as he got himself out of the stance, "Alright..."

The assassin looked over to the girl again, getting back to his original point, "A teenager. Can you believe zhat?" he questioned, "A girl zhat age, already in her profession."

The Engineer assumed that the man meant that she was an intern, or something. There was no way a place, even a corrupt one like this, let children into their ranks. That was just ridiculous. Still, he could believe that she was taking a tour around here, feeling it was a potential job, or something, which by itself was messed up, he supposed.

"Yeah. Wonder how she got here," he cogitated as he quickly turned back to the assassin, expression dour, "...And ah also wonder why yer are bothering to speak t' me without a gun in mah face."

"Monsieur Engineer, you and I are going to be on zhe same Unit," the assassin said as he took out a cigarette case, "Do you know what zhis implies?"

"...You don't kill me?" growled the Engineer.

"I am not going to say no... But I cannot say yes, either," he suavely spoke as he selected one of the expensive cigarettes, and handed it over to him, "Cigarette?"

The Engineer raised an eyebrow. "...No, ah don't smoke. ...What're y'all implying?"

"What I am implying is zhat I will not kill you," he said as he lit the tobacco, "Unless... Well, you see, monsieur, zhe way I work with others is simply zhis; Unless the assignment at hand requires you to be alive, or if your services are valued... I will do nothing to 'elp you. If you are attacked by an enemy, and I feel you're worthless..." he emitted a soft note of a chuckle, "Well, I won't be volunteering for the show, so to speak. If, in zhe worse case, you turn out to be hindrance... Well..." he snapped his lighter shut, "I believe you're intelligent enough to know what I am saying. Comprendre?"

The Engineer said nothing. He just store at the Frenchman incredulously.

"Ah don't even know yer _name,"_ he scowled.

"And you never _will,"_ asserted the Frenchman as he sauntered off, "For now, and for the rest of our probably short time together, you shall refer to me as zhe Spy."

With that last quip, the Spy left for who-knows-where, while the Engineer just stood there, trying to process the words of easily the biggest douchebag he had ever met.

"...What a dick!" he grumbled to himself, before he felt a cold shadow loom over him.

"I'm certain I'm nicer!" it sung.

"Whu- Jesus!" shouted the Engineer as he jumped again. He turned immediately to see the identity of the shadow... Only to quickly ease himself as he saw it was just an old man, looking to be somewhere in his fifties. He seemed a little odd, wearing a long, crisp white coat that hung to his calves and glasses framing his dark eyes. A small smile curled on the man's lean face, and his dark hair sat short and straight on his head, a small, rebellious curve being the only exception to the rest of his locks. He carried numerous bags on his back, and had a miniature army of pure, soft, snow-white doves perched on his shoulders, one nestled in his hair. The man was currently giving him a pleasant smile, not really doing anything noteworthy besides casual observation.

"Quick reflexes. Good," he observed, his German accent making itself apparent.

"...What in Sam... Who're you supposed ta be?" asked the Engineer, unnerved by the German for some reason. The man was giving off a strange aura, and the Engineer wasn't sure he liked it. Something about the man just rubbed him the wrong way, that smile of his remaining wide and uncaring, and his birds' beady eyes almost staring into his soul. The Texan and the German stood for a moment, the Texan suspicious and the German thinking something over from the Engineer's question, before responding at last with a reduced smile.

"Ack, how rude of me, I am zhe Medic," he greeted, doing a curt bow, "My duty here is self-explanatory, I believe."

"Well, ah don't think 'a mahself as a complete dumbass," joked the Engineer.

"No need to add to zhe masses of zhem, hmm?"

"Guess so," chuckled the Engineer.

"Heh. Good thing too, or else-" the doctor was interrupted by the dove on his head pulling his stray curl, "-Uck, vhat is it, Archimedes? You know zhat..." he hissed and plucked the little bird off his head, gently holding it in his palms, "Ugh... _Du weißt, du nicht sollen Papa kümmern,_ _während er an ahnungslose Mäusen spricht..."_ he trailed off in German as he stroked the little creature in his hands, tutting away to it in his native tongue while the Engineer stood in front of him, awkwardly shifting foot to foot.

"Um_..._ Am ah interrupting something, or-?"

The doctor quickly looked up. "Hmm? Oh no, no, Archimedes is just a big baby. He only wants his Daddy's attention is all," he continued petting the bird, "Zhere haven't been zhat many intestines lately for him to snuggle in, so-"

"Whu- WHAT?"

The Medic quickly met the Engineer's eyes, which were currently wide in horror at the older man as if he had grown a second head. The Medic simply pursed his lips, pulling the edges into a small smile, _"Oops..._ _Not supposed to talk about zhese sings vith strangers~!"_ he sung as he released Archimedes, who eagerly flew back onto his caretaker's head, "Vell, after saying zhat, I can assume our conversation is currently over. It vas nice seeing you, Herr Engineer!" With these words, the man began to nonchalantly walk away, leaving the Engineer standing dumbfounded with wide eyes and a slightly open jaw. Something had been said to him. He knew that. It was just... Hard, to sponge it in...

Before he could strain himself, though, the Medic quickly hopped back. "Ack, I almost forgot; Booster shots, and zhe Uber treatments are going to take place tomorrow at zhe earliest. It may change, depending on... Vell, my mood, really. Just a head's up," he smiled, before leaving once again. A second before taking his first step, however, he quickly cocked his head back, "Oh, and vatch out for children, regardless as to how old zhey are." With these true last words, he hopped off again, leaving the Engineer as confused as ever.

"...Wha-" before he could say anything, he felt someone boot kick him to the ground. Hard. The impact bruised his shoulder, and forced his teeth slightly into his tongue, sending the strong taste of his own blood to spill into his mouth. Confused out of his mind, the Engineer quickly turned his head to his attacker, not out fear, but out of anger. It turned out it was the guy from earlier, the one in the military attire, standing over him whilst raising his helmet somewhat to make his glowering, unnaturally electric blue eyes apparent.

"Unless you're here delivering a message, or something along those lines," he snarled, his voice smooth as sandpaper, "You have just entered a land of _PAIN,_ you cowardly Spy!"

The Engineer frowned. The man smelled of tobacco, mixed with dirt and gunpowder. He looked like he could snap him in half without much effort, and was looming over him like a wolf over an innocent squirrel. But the Engineer was more angry than scared by this point.

"Ah'm the Engineer of this Unit," he explained, trying to keep his voice even. The man was silent for a moment, before finally giving a look of anger.

"I refuse to accept your words! Prove it."

"How?"

"Do one of your... I don't know..." he swirled his finger in the air as he jogged his memory, "...Mathematical doo-hickies, or something a Spy wouldn't know..."

"Uh..." muttered the Engineer, "Ohm's Law states V= I x R?" he questioned, hoping that a simple High School equation was good enough to pass.

Unfortunately, the Engineer wasn't a lucky man.

"Ha! How stupid do you think I am? Even one such as I knows that letters have NOTHING to do with math!" shouted the man, turning to the two guys on the bench, "FRAG-LEG! COMMIE! C'mere and help me dispose of this spying bastard!" he called with a gravelly laugh.

The drunk had passed out a while ago, a loud snore echoing from his reeking mouth as he cradled his half-empty bottle of sparkling moonshine. The big fellow, on the other hand, was very much awake. A low growl reverberated from his throat as he picked his bulky frame up, and marched over to the American with a little hint of fury look in his eye.

"Told leetle Soldier that I do not like dat name, _yet he calls me eet anyway,"_ he snarled in his ridiculously thick accent as he menaced over him, "He ees stupid man. He should **LISTEN."**

The American stood completely oblivious to the death threat. "Sure. Let's kick this guy's ass!"

"Net," snarled the Russian, "Why do we kill dees man? He is fellow RED."

"He's a Spy!" protested the American, "Engie's are expected to know everything about science and math! This one knows shit!"

The bear-man looked to the Soldier, unamused, then to the Engineer with the same apathy.

"Is leetle Engineer a Spy?"

"Nope."

The Russian took a sniff of the air, closed his eyes for a moment, and crossed his arms. "Leetle man cannot be Spy, he has no smoke smell," settled the Russian, "Stupid Soldier ees just paranoid."

"Fine, be a baby," snarled the Soldier, "War's no place for retards anyway!"

"What did puny Soldier say?" asked the Russian.

"I said-" the Soldier was cut off by the Russian's fist crashing into his face with the force of a truck, sending him colliding spectacularly into the ground. Pulling his fist back, the behemoth gazed at the American's unconscious body, and crossed his beefy arms over his chest with a frown.

"Такой глупый человек," he sighed, rubbing a meaty hand on his temple. The Engineer picked himself off the ground, and dusted off his overalls. He looked over to his fellow comrade, gratefully. He wouldn't have gone down without a fight, but this guy had saved him from having to resort to that.

"Much obliged, pard'ner," he murmured.

"No problem," grunted the man, "Engineers are important. Stupid Soldier is good, but not as useful as Engineer."

The Engineer was taken aback slightly. _Well, that's an awful odd thing for a giant to say._ "Uh... Why's that?"

The man shrugged. "If power goes out, or weapons get damaged, someone has to fix it," explained the Russian, "If not, we be dead. Soldier only good for blowing things up. And he is stupid. So, I say before, he is OK, but not important. Monkey can do his job."

"Huh, thanks. ...What's yer name?"

"I am Heavy Weapons Guy," greeted the Russian, "I help mow down enemies. Makes it quick."

_Well, he seems mostly sane,_ the Engineer decided, "Well, nice meetin' ya."

"Da, you too," waved the Heavy as he retreated to the bench, "I must go tend to Sasha now."

The Texan's raised his eyebrows in continued puzzlement. "Sasha?" he asked, bewildered. But, the Heavy was already out of hearing range.

Shrugging it off as bizzarre thing #87, the Engineer shoved his hands into his pockets, and chose to look around again. People, people, cement, people. People everywhere. People cascading their numbers around the train station like syrup over his mama's pancakes. God, was he sick of people. In fact, he felt as overwhelmed as ever.

Then his eye caught the stars ledged in the night's atmosphere again.

Slowly, he turned his whole head to face the night sky. The Texan felt yet another wave of hopelessness upon staring at them, free to shine high up in the heavens, while he stood surrounded by nutcases. Those little, shining dots in the sky were the only comforting things here, the only things that weren't potentially fatal. His eyes skimmed across constellation after constellation with longing, his hands shaking in his pockets with the desire of reaching them. Astronomy had always piqued his interests, but learning the patterns of stars was probably the only fact of science he didn't really want to know. As wonderful as science was, he never wanted to lose the sense of wonder he had upon staring at that subtle, shining army of unreachable specks in the sky, the comfort he felt when he sat by the window, naively believing that they helped grant wishes as opposed to just being burning balls of gas from miles away. He liked not knowing their patterns, just to add to the childish wonder of simply watching without critically analysing what fit where, and which stars went with the others. Wish-making had always been a fun pastime, and now, here he was again, about to declare what was probably his most important wish yet. The Engineer clenched his fists, and felt his eyes sting, but he forced the tears back. Instead he looked up, and silently uttered his urgent, heartfelt plea to the flickering stars above.

_Please... Don't let me die._

"Ey. Having fun?" asked a friendly voice from beside him. The Texan eased his shoulders, and locked his eyes with the Australian's, his response consisting of a simple shrug.

"Not really," he muttered, "You?"

The Australian gave his own signature shrug. "Met the spook properly earlier. He's even worse in casual conversation, hate the bastard even more now," he spat, "He hurt my feelings."

The Engineer chuckled at the sarcasm. "Ya met the others?"

"Yeh. The sawbones' pretty damn messed, and that giant bloke, who I'm assuming is the Heavy, is pretty blunt. Not like there's anything wrong with that. And the Pyro-"

"The _what?"_ asked Engineer, praying he misheard the information that one of them was a firebug.

Unfortunately, the Engineer wasn't a lucky man.

"Oh, Pyro's that... ...Person in the gasmask over there, talking to that sheila in the glasses," pointed the Aussie. The Texan's gaze followed the direction of his finger, and zeroed in on an odd being chatting away to the girl. It was wearing a red, flame impervious rubber suit, with thick boots and rubber gloves, with a flamethrower slung to its back. The oddest thing about it though, was that it was wearing a gasmask that covered its whole head. Its attire didn't let anyone get a glimpse at a single speck of its skin. ...Did it even have skin...? Before he could start making theories, though, his eye then noted the girl's face. His ears traced her nervous laughter, her squeamish body movements...

Before the Engineer knew it, he had walked right over to behind her, unsure of what he was going to do, but knowing full well he was going to do it. If there was anything he learned from his Daddy, it was to assist a lady when she needed it.

"Ah'm sorry, is there a problem?" he asked, softly. The girl quickly turned to him, a little startled at first. But after a little bit, recognition flashed through her eyes and a relieved smile arched on her lips.

"Oh, you're the Engineer!" she chirped, "I was wondering when you were going to show up. ...Not like you're tardy, of course, but... Anyway, no, there isn't a real problem here. I was just getting... Acquainted, with the Pyro of this Unit. Say hello, Pyro." She said, turning to the enigma. The Engineer looked skeptically over to the strange being in the flame resistant clothes, who was currently waving towards him with insane energy.

"Mmhpo!" it called, muffled voice full of unusual cheer.  
(Hello!)

"Uh... Hey," muttered the Engineer, unsure of how to respond.

"Mph muffl muff moff, hudda muffes hudda mu! Mrphele mhh moph mhhhp mph! Mhphmufffphmffferlpherlffle mphhhudmdda! Mmmphmufo MFFF! Mre mhp mhh maff mouff maff?" it exclaimed/uttered/sung/questioned/cheered, gesturing with wide arms to the land around it with wild energy and amazing passion, "Mhhprrpmhp... Mmmphffermmhaddhuddarrfle! ...Mma?"

"...Sure!"

The girl cut in. "Right, Pyro, how about you meet all the others while I talk to our friend the Engineer?"

The Pyro nodded and skipped away... Literally _skipped _away, like a merry schoolgirl... Off to God knows where, crude singing emitting from its perpetual mask. The girl sighed.

"Gone 'round the bend that one has, the poor thing..." murmured the girl, before turning to the Engineer, "Anyway, I was wondering when you were going to show up, Engineer! You're a little late, but I guess that's more the train's fault than anything... Oh! That person behind you is the Sniper, isn't it? Hello there, sir."

The Engineer turned. Indeed, the Sniper was there, swaying over his shoulder with his bleary eyes staring off into the distance. Jesus, what were the people here? Part ninja?

"'Ello," smiled the dizzy marksman, "Pauling, rioght?"

A chill ran through the air.

_...What?_

The Engineer felt his eyes widen in disbelief. He could take the actuality of sadistic doctors, drill sergeants with the IQs of crack-addicted gnats, Pyro's sheer existence, and many, many more things, but there was no way someone that young was going to be in charge of eight fully-grown, mentally unstable men. That just... That wasn't right on any level. Surely, they were joking.

But they weren't.

The girl politely did a curtsy with a sweet smile, and professionally straightened her skirt. "Yes, I am," she quaintly smiled in a small, controlled smile, "Though I'd much prefer _Miss_ Pauling, thank you."

Slack-jawed, he store at her, not believing it in the slightest.

"What...?! No way!" he cried, "But yer... Yer only-"

"I know, Mr. Engineer. Trust me, there aren't any other people my age in my profession. I'm a special case," she explained, "If I were in your shoes, I'd be in disbelief as well."

"Bu...But how?!" demanded the Engineer, "You're only seventeen! Shouldn't you be in High School, or somethin' like that?"

She shook her head. "Sixteen," she corrected, "And no, I shouldn't, because... Look, I can't share the details, it's confidential, but I assure you; If you ask anyone ranked higher than me, they'll tell you that I'm an Overseer."

_That's her idea of reassurin'? _mentally scoffed the Texan.

"Look, miss, ah'm all fer equal rights, but there's no way-"

"Then act as though you are, please," she requested, voice laced ever so slightly with annoyance, "I don't mean to sound discourteous, or anything of the sort, but things here aren't at all like they are in Bee Cave, Engineer. Like it or not, I'm this Unit's Overseer. My job is to run the base properly, and to make sure none of you do anything brash. Part of that includes you listening to what I have to say. I may be young, yes, but those are the rules, and we have to follow them. Do you understand?"

The Engineer bit his tongue, half out of respect, since she had an air of authority to her, and seemed overall quite strong in a mental sense for one as young as her, but the other half was out of pure disgust for the superiors. Someone this young, helping in monitoring a bloodbath. Sixteen years old? At that age, he'd cooped himself away in his grandfather's library, hiding from his neighbor's loose chickens whilst he thought about his teenage crushes and whatever crazy inventions he'd wanted to bring to life in those days, not trapped among adults in a War of basket-cases and death. (His Aunt Margret's house excluded) This girl? Let's just say he'd be a little more than surprised if the words, _'she'd lived a normal, fulfilling life,' _ever genuinely kissed his ears. Taking a child and forcing them into role such as this... How sick could you be? Yet, here she stood, her ebony eyes looking him down with upmost seriousness as he stood before her. Before he could open his mouth, the Engineer felt his friend's hand on his shoulder.

"Mate, ya best listen to 'er," he advised, "She's serious. Apologize."

The Engineer bit back his words with clenched fists.

"...Sorry, m'am."

"Good, I'm glad we had this discussion," she sighed, putting her nose back in the papers on her clipboard, scratching things off with a pen with a slightly relieved smile, "Right... I think we're all here," she mused. This bit of information seemed to catch the Australian by surprise.

"But... There's only eight of us," he frowned, eyes doubtful, "Don't we get a Courier, or a Scout, or some other Class specialized in recon?"

Pauling shook her head, tied hair swishing like delayed springs with the movement. "There was some imbalance in the system," she explained, "I'm not sure why exactly, but some Units have gotten slightly below, or slightly above the amount of Classes usually permitted, us being one of the formers. The higher-ups are still doing what they can to fix it, but it isn't a great problem among some of the other things they have to do, so it may take a while. We probably will get a Class specialized in reconnaissance at some point in the near future, though."

"Zhat is, if ve're still alive in zhe near future," sung the Medic. Everyone turned in surprise to see the good doctor standing with them, Cheshire cat grin triumphantly shining on his aged face.

"H-" begun the Engineer, before annoyance took over, "...You know what? Never mind. Whadda we do now, Miss Paulin'?"

The girl smiled as she took out an old-fashioned, worn metal whistle. "We leave, of course," she smirked. She then placed her lips on the small piece of metal, and released a long, shrill note in the air. Everyone cringed a little at the noise, but it did its job in effectively catching everyone's attention. (Spare the drunk's and the Soldier's. They were both unconscious.)

"Everyone! Come along!" she called as the grumbling men made their way over, the Pyro frolicking as it carried the drunk and the Soldier by the collars of their attires.

The Engineer store his six other co-workers down, uneasily. The Heavy's bored face, the Spy's cruel gaze, the Medic's apathy for anything outside his doves, the Soldier's aggressiveness, the drunk's snores, the Pyro's disturbing cheerfulness, Miss Pauling's stern professionalism, and the Sniper's distant look all equaled something the Engineer had feared; He was the weakest one here. Everyone else didn't care about the others around them living, or the high probability they'd possibly die, or the fact these people would be together for the next unpredictable amount of time; This War was merely the daily grind to them. They were too used to it. Their apathy, or madness, would protect them from getting hurt. The Engineer had nothing of the sort. The Southerner was moral-driven, diplomatic, amiable, not a killer. And this fact would most likely be his undoing.

And as they loaded themselves on the Train, the Engineer could've sworn he felt the coldest of chills grab him. But unlike the ones before, this one didn't let go.

...

**A/N: TWENTY. FREAKIN'. PAGES. OF GROAN-WORTHY ANGST, OOC, AND NARRATIVE. YOU'RE WELCOME! XD Ok. Super long, boring, depressing, AU, OOC Chapter; DONE. :P Now, to move onto the next super-long bore of a chapter that probably won't be written for another year-and-a-half! XD (Nah, I'm just screwing with you. It'll probably be out WAAAAY sooner than this one. :3)**

**Now, I know what you're all thinking; **_**"Raven! Are you telling me I waited MONTHS for this?! AND WHERE'S SCOUT, YOU DIRTY HO-BISCUT?!"**_

**1. ...Yeah, you... Kinda did. :L It's a shit beginning, I know, but... I didn't know how else to start... I don't know what to say besides a pitiful, "I'm sorry."**

**2. Ok, people. Scout will not be here until Chapter... Six-ish? ...Eh, I dunno which Chapter exactly, but he'll show up in the near future, that's guaranteed. So, do not fret, Scout fans; The Scout shall be a main character, cross-meh-heart. ...Sorry, haters. X3**

**Right... Well, I've stepped in this story, so no stepping out now. :L**

**May the Gravel Wars commence.**

**...**

**...Along with a shitload of probably poorly written angst and unrealistic bromance.**

**Fan girls; YAY, SUGOI! :D**


	2. The Base and the Doctor

**A/N: THIS CHAPTER. IS SOMEHOW LONGER THAN THE LAST ONE. O3O HOW. WHY.**

**Oh hey, you stuck around. ...HEY, I HAVE ANOTHER THING YOU HAVE TO KNOW! :D**

**Everyone; BOOOOO!**

**I know, I know. I suck - But I assure you, this is the last quip. Yeah, there's an over-arching plot, but this story is more about the character-development and the misadventures of the team, and how they build as people for the better, or in some cases, for the worse. So, yes, it's kinda like 100 Missions, or Adventures with BLU, but not nearly as sweet, adorable or funny, and instead... ...I got nothing... Gruesome? Poorly executed? ...Well, basically, there's the occasional little piece of plot, but most of it is missions, exploration, one-shots and building characters. One of those, "It's more the journey than the destination," type of stories. :L That probably turns off... Everybody... But it's the type of story this is. I'm sorry. I won't be offended if you leave, don't worry. n_n**

**Personal status; Well, despite having little to no one supporting me, I'm currently quite happy I got some positive reception. :3 I shall take a moment to thank those silent rogues who are following the story, as well as MickeyDismantle... Or PennyLiving... Or whatever the hell he's calling himself these days, for being awesome and reviewing out of pure awesomeness. :P**

**Right, this chapter, we get to look around the base, a bit of gore and MORE angst! Yay! :P**

**Everyone: (Groans, spits insults, shouts at author for writing everyone OOC, complains about the chapter length, along with the time it took to update, exclaims, 'boo,' and numerous other well-justified insults.)**

**SHADDUP! ):C**

**Anyway, I, sadly, do not own Team Fortress 2. ...Though that's probably for the better. XD**

_..._

He was so inescapably lost.

A scratchy cough escaped the young cowboy as he fought past the stillness' attempts to hold him down, head pounding like a kettledrum against his pulse, and the gravity of his lungs pulling on the interior of his chest like a boulder against a flattened corpse. In a style as repetitive as the clichés in a slasher flick, his weighted boots sunk in the sands of the colourless, grayscale desert for the hundredth time, much to his weariness. With an angry hiss, he tugged them out again, and placed them forward, effectively sinking them again. Originally, it would've annoyed him to the point where he'd stop and try to remove the sand from the interior of the leather, but now all that lingered was fatigue and apathy, along with his dwindling drive to continue his progression, even though it was clearly taking him nowhere. Mountains hung around the edges of the wild lands, holding the dreary, cloudy sky in their jagged, distant peaks with foreboding. No light shone through the barren clouds, no shadows covered the dull sands... The whole world was dull, endless, and grayscale.

Hopelessness swelled in his soul as the desert lay before him, the exit as far away as ever. His adrenaline wore, and he collapsed in a spectacular thud, consciousness merely flickering. Laying belly down in the powdery blanket, his sea-green eyes wandered the soulless, unmoving grains with a grand lack of concern. Was death really so horrid? He pondered the possibility of his demise, knowing that the world would forget about him like yesterday's rain. Not nearly as horrible as people made it out to be. In fact, it was rather peaceful, dying like this... Just like-

A jolt went through his muscles. No. He wasn't ready to die just yet.

With a grunt, the boy pushed himself off the sandy floor, standing on gelatin legs and brushing the dirt off his old, brown overalls. Tiredly, he looked into the distance, expecting to be forced to move forward for another eternity, only to see that the scene had changed a little bit. His legs still remained halfway sunken in the greatly bland desert, and the sky was still dismal as hell, but now, there was a scarlet, odd, humble door standing before him. Humble, like a door to a house, but odd in the sense that it wasn't connected to any walls. Dumbfounded, he approached it, a sudden soft breeze suddenly and softly rippling his cowboy attire as a faint melody floated on the fresh breeze. Small, but warm rays of sunlight began to sprinkle the wilderness as he slowly placed his hand on the cool doorknob, seemingly whispering for him to pull it open. Cautiously, the lad obeyed, tugging the knob with a small click.

Suddenly, colour, sounds and scents rushed into the world like the most powerful of currents, swooning him out of his misery and exhaustion, and tenderly replacing them with pure bliss. Life illuminated as he ran past the cream-shaded walls of the old house and savoured the sweet scent of pancakes wafting from the oven to his nostrils. Quickly, he scurried past the butter-coloured walls and into the white-floored kitchen, where his mother stood waiting for him, sweet smile showing off her slightly crooked teeth, her dirty blond locks hung lazily tied back in a messy ponytail, and a giant stack of pancakes gently cradled in her dainty fingers.

"These all fer me?" he asked, resisting the urge to drool. His mother giggled.

"Son, who do you think they're for?" she chirped, brown eyes shining.

His happiness swirled like a merry twister. The War didn't exist anymore. Those nutcases at the station weren't real, he'd never learned how to use a shotgun, there were no mercenaries, it had all been a crazy, horrible dream. He was ten again, his mama was making him pancakes, he was gonna head off to school after eating, then he'd play at Sandy's house with Davie, Jon and Irene. Afterwards, he'd end off the day by stargazing with his old man. Without a second thought, he rushed over to the platter and began gobbling them, savouring the sweet flavour of the syrup and ignoring his mama's fussing that he was eating too much. Life was good. The world rippled in the steam of the pancakes, and the sweetness of the syrup practically danced on his tongue. He was oh, so happy.

...Then the world started to fade to black, and his senses opened for real.

The Texan slowly opened his concealed eyes from behind his goggles, and saw himself sitting against the rock-hard fabric of the seat within a train booth. Out the window next to him sat a scarlet dawn rising over the horizon of the New Mexican desert, the muted rays kissing the whole left half of his body and the speeding ground outside. Puffy clouds hung up above, tinted a rose shade as they hung suspended below the crimson atmosphere, their distended shapes drifting lazily on the young morning breeze. He noted that the scenery of the desert had changed somewhat from when he had retired to the booth, shifting sands replaced with a cracked ground, the faces of far-off, orangey stone cliffs approaching in the distance and the occasional cactus lining the parched ground. Quietly, he looked next to him, where his packed belongings sat, as if to merely confirm his fears. The Engineer clenched his fists, disappointment binding his emotions.

The pancakes had been a lie. A giant, goddamn lie.

Resting his head in hand, he sighed for umpteenth time and stared at his dusty, old work boots in misery. It wasn't a booze-originated nightmare. He was really here. And now, he'd be stationed at a base, and basically stranded there until he and the others were re-located. _Trapped with seven nutjobs in a soulless fortress in the middle of a desert,_ he mentally uttered, inner voice dripping with sarcasm, _Dreams really do come true._

Life sucks. Before he knew it, he had begun to contemplate on how he could escape, or commit a painless suicide. He'd heard eating tobacco did the trick, but he wasn't sure that would taste too good. Disturbingly engrossed, he continued on his morbid thought train for a while. Until he heard the glass shatter.

Quickly shutting down his line of morbid ideas and turning his head to the door, he listened in on the beginning sounds of a ruckus originating, it's birth coming from further down the corridor outside. It was a stifled ruckus of broken glass, thrown objects, heavy footsteps and panic-ridden cries. And hurriedly heading to his booth. Grimness filling his soul, the Texan reached in his suitcase and grabbed his new pistol, just out of preparation if he had to use self-defense. He had taken out the pistol cartridge, when the steel door suddenly slammed itself open. Before he could utter a sound, the drunk from last night tossed himself in, screaming and rolling under the bench across from him. The Engineer felt fear enter him, mind speeding through idea after idea about what could've happened to make the drunk behave this way. Before he could ask, the man looked up in distress at the Texan, jade eye widened in fear, shining brightly from the peril.

"Ey, lad, ye gotta HELP ME!" he cried in his panic, the drunk's oddly Scottish accent coming to attention, "NESSIE'S DUN RETURNED FROM HELL! An'... M' ha... M' HAT! It's dunright EVIL and it's gonna KILL MEEEEE!" he sobbed in panic, rolling nonsensically on the floor as he thrashed in his haze.

In the meantime, the sober Engineer just gazed away with a horribly numb mind. And pushed himself a bit further back into the seat.

As the man continued to cry like an infant and the initial numbness passed, the Engineer found he was tempted to help take the rolling mess of a cyclops to whatever form of infirmary they had on board. A bit of kindness never hurt anybody, he figured. He pushed himself up off the seat, hoping to help, when the Medic suddenly saved him the trouble and walked in himself, coat swishing with his movements and Archimedes still perched on his head, obliviously preening his snow-shaded feathers. But the doctor looked different from the prior night. Unlike the night before, the German had a downright sinister nature to his appearance, his prior Cheshire Cat grin and shining dark eyes long gone, and replaced with a deep grimace and dangerously glinting glasses. The Engineer didn't have time to say so much as a hello, as the doctor had already marched right over to the drunk and crouched down to his eye level.

"Look here, Herr Demoman; I haff chased you all over zhis godforsaken train, und you have succeeded in _thoroughly_ _**displeasing**_ me. So, in order to makes this painless on your behalf, how about we stop being a childish bastard und hold _still,_ hmm?" he scowled, taking out an empty syringe.

"NAE, NESSIE! _NAE!"_ shouted Demo, pushing himself further into the wall as he talked down to the doctor like a dog, "GIT TH' FOOK AWAY FRUM MEH!"

The Medic's patience wore thin. The doctor stood upright, soul-piercing glower still on, and swiftly pounded his foot into the Scott's neck, effectively knocking him out. The German scowled, and without further word, crouched again and drew the Scotsman's blood.

"Zhere, all done," scoffed the Medic, pushing himself off the rattling, dust-infected steel floor and tucking the syringe in his coat, "I swear, you're almost as stupid as zhe American. _'Nessie...'_ feh..."

"Uh... Taking blood samples, doc?" asked the Texan, staring at the unconscious Cyclopes and shifting himself out from the inflexible cushions.

The Medic turned to the Texan, menacing glint all but vanishing to remain as a simple, subtle shine from the red dawn from afar. "Ah. Policy," explained the Medic, "Any doctor vould like to know who has vhich blood type before operations and such."

"Oh, ah git'cha," replied the Texan with a nod, holding out his arm, "Ah really don't like needles, but go on ahead."

The Medic chuckled, "No, no, zhere's no need for zhat, Herr Engineer," he assured, "I took yours vhile you vere asleep."

His eyes widened.

"Wh-What...?" he whispered, inspecting his arms for any sort puncture, and looking up to the German in shock, "H-HEY NOW! Y'all can't-!" But his words fell on the mere, cool air, as the Medic had miraculously vanished.

To blank of mind for any amount of time was a truly perpetual feeling.

Quietly, he slunk back in the bench again, mind completely numb and stillness hanging over his frame as he pondered what the hell had just happened. The Medic was only one thing to the Texan, and it was being a man not to trust. Plan-making on how to avoid the German would have to wait, however, as the quiet sound of approaching footsteps from the corridor outside required attention.

He turned his head again, this time looking towards Pauling's petite body standing in the door frame, hair tied back as it was from last night and now wearing a faded purple top and a black skirt that went down to her calves. Her regular clipboard still remained practically glued to her fingers as she held it against her chest, and her face held the same look of mild intrigue and equally as mild indifference.

"Did you sleep well?" asked the Overseer, brushing a loose curl of hair off the tip of her nose.

The Engineer shrugged, "Ah guess. You?"

"Satisfactory, I-" she paused as she noted the unconscious Demoman, concern covering her features, "...Engineer. May I ask what happened to him?"

"Doc," he explained.

Pauling frowned. "Ah. I wasn't properly introduced to him, but he did seem rather... Strange..."

"'_Strange,'_?" he asked with a chuckle, "Try madder than a rapid dog."

She coughed slightly. "...Right, err... Judging by the sun, we'll be arriving in ten or so minutes. Maybe more, maybe less. I lack the proper time," she stated, changing the subject, to which the Engineer found perplexing. Anything _remotely_ humorous was unprofessional to her, apparently.

_Goddamn, you're only a kid. Laugh a little._ "Sure, miss."

With a firm nod and a lack of further word, the youthful Overseer swept herself away in her professional, quiet march, leaving the Engineer frowning to himself in his seat.

"She's way too young fer this..." he muttered, stretching himself over his seat with a sigh. His eye caught the drunk across from him again, a quiet snore coming from the cyclops' throat. "And you... Well, ah can't get upset with y'all being here for the same reason as her, but you... Yer just way too drunk. Ain't you concerned about yer liver, son?"

A loud, brief snort was his answer.

"Guess not," murmured the Texan.

(-)

The sun was a beast when it was fully awake.

The Engineer wiped the sweat off his brow, wincing at the parched nature of his throat as he trailed behind the others in his fatigue. It had only been forty-five minutes since they had left the train in the middle of the desert, but it felt like he'd been out in the sun all day, roasting like a rat in its harsh rays. He pushed himself along their path as they crossed along one of the thousands of crevices littering the way from where they were to the base, cliff faces covering the landscape all around him and the team like the minotaur's labyrinth. They marched along their surroundings of rough bluffs trailing through the desert, orangey walls fair distances apart and dusty, the hard floor beneath them besieged with rocks and crunchy sand. He held a small rag to his face to mop up his sweat as he proceeded along the winding path, grains of sand underfoot crunching with every movement. He really wasn't cut out for this type of stuff, as proven by everyone on the team as they remained quite far ahead of him.  
...Well, almost everyone. The Sniper was only a few paces ahead of him, placing his feet forward at a pleasant pace as he took in the sights. The Engineer couldn't see his face, put he could hear a merry whistle trailing along the air from his proximity, so he could safely assume he was in a good mood. He didn't know the song... He didn't know if it even was a song, but nevertheless, the marksman seemed at home in the blistering heat and scorching sands, and seemed rather pleased with the soft, blazing wind gently tugging at his akubra and pulling on his sweat-drenched clothes. The others were all busy following Miss Pauling as she lead them through the endless seas of ancient rock, but he merely trailed behind out of preference of observation and a fondness for the scenery. The only reason the Engineer was behind him at all was because he was exhausted out of his lack of stamina.

He examined the sky through the cracks overhead as it glowed a soft, pleasant blue, the clouds from the morning spreading into little puffy, popcorn-like shapes as they flooded the astral blue sea. They did little to block the sun, but clouds were clouds, and were always nice to look at, nice to observe as they glided along the air currents, much like birds. Speaking of, his eye caught a stray one roaming the clouds. He couldn't tell what it was, but it was quite elegant as it soared along.

"Hawk," observed the Sniper, "Red tail, looks lioke."

The Engineer looked over to his 'friend.' The man's hands were in his pockets and his eyes were trained on the bird, rather casually and respectfully.

"How can you tell?" asked the Engineer, genuinely interested.

The Sniper shrugged, "S'not that big, kinda gliding along, lil' twinge of red on its tail."

The Engineer squinted. The hawk still remained a distant, black silhouette, but he trusted his friend's knowledge.

"Huh... Hey, how can y-" he begun, only to see that the Sniper was suddenly ten feet away, walking coolly along the bumpy ground. The Texan, angry at the lanky assassin, broke into a short run to keep up, going as fast as his short legs would carry him as he struggled to keep up with him.

"H-Hey!" he huffed, "Quit that!"

The Australian raised the brim of hat somewhat. "Eh? Quit what?"

"Quit leaving when ah'm talking mid-sentence!" frowned the Engineer, annoyed, "Ah was asking you a question, dummy!"

The Australian paused his walk for a second, hands in his pockets as he studied the sweat on his stocky friend's face. Then, without warning, he chuckled.

"Blimey, mate," he snickered, "Well, if it bothers you that much, I'll try not to."

The Engineer felt a little twinge of rage, but distinguished it quickly, "Good," he nodded, a little too briskly.

"So, what was it?" suddenly asked the Australian, sun reflecting off his sunglasses.

"Huh?"

"Your question."

The Engineer remembered, feeling rather stupid. "Oh yeah... Right, well, ah was gonna ask how you could see the red from so far away. Looked like a pure silhouette ta me."

The Australian looked at him for a minute, observing seriously, then shrugged. "Oi ate a lot of carrots when oi was a kid," he gravely stated. The Engineer was mute for a second. Then, a welcome, warm chuckle escaped him.

"Oh, if only ah listened to mah mom," he joked. The Australian chuckled back.

"You outta listen to yer mum," agreed the Australian, "'Else ya turn out lioke Medic; Hated an' bloody creepy."

The Engineer covered his mouth at the cruel joke, trying to disguise his amusement. "That's so mean!" he cried, still laughing somewhat.

"But it's true," smirked the marksman.

The Texan smiled as he drew his hand down. "Ah know! That's the worst part!"

The two of them fell into a small, but merry fit of laughter at the doctor's expense, the Engineer feeling both elated and shameful with the behavior, and the Sniper playfully slapping the Engineer on the back past his snickers, occasional gasps for air sounding past his raspy cackling.

"See? This is what happens when you laugh!" grinned the Sniper, trying to kill his laughter while his hazily green eyes shined from behind the shades, eventually succeeding, "You... You feel better. Stupid. But better."

"Nah, not stupid," disclaimed the Engineer, "Last few months ah've been through? Laughing feels miles away from stupid."

Amusement slowly shriveled to curiosity.

"Why are you here, then?" asked the Australian, "What'd you do to get in here?"

The Engineer's enjoyment died a little as he somberly chuckled, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"Eh... Long story..." he murmured, "...Ah ain't in the mood to talk about it. Sorry."

The Australian seemed to understand, and offered the Engineer some silence as they both walked along. The Engineer quickly noted that the Australian's eyes bore that same distant gaze from last night, letting it show that some untraceable thoughts were slowly gliding through his skull, like the hawk flying overhead. The Engineer was curious, and stood tempted to talk to him about it. In fact, he would've told him all about the terrible awful he did, but they had already caught up with rest of the Unit, the previously established nutcases standing in front of some patch of the rock wall, and Miss Pauling looking expectantly towards them as they approached. He chose to remain silent like his friend and continue biting his shame back as she checked something off her clipboard.

"Aaaaand we're all accounted for," she stated, her face covered in sweat and a few strands of her dark, straight hair sticking to her cheeks, "Now, to enter the base..."

The Engineer store at her, confused as he pondered what the hell she was talking about. They were in the middle of some godforsaken, boulder-littered crevice. There wasn't a mark of civilization for miles, nevertheless a base.

"What base?" he asked, dumbly. For a moment, everyone stared at him. Then the Spy broke into snorting laughter, his gloved hand swiftly covering his mouth past his chuckles.

"What?" demanded the Engineer, afraid of what the laughter might signify, "What the hell did I say that was funny!?"

The Frenchman did his best to stifle his laughter as he looked the Texan in the face. "Oh, I hate to be zhe bearer of bad news, but... Oh, muzzer of God, you're so going to die," he snickered, "You are dead, monsieur Engineer. Dead, dead, dead..."

What did he say wrong?! The Engineer's stomach did a flip at these words, his fear and hate rising in his chest at how completely hateful the man was. Nobody was standing up for him, though... Did everyone think this? Fear gripped him as he stood, almost about to simply accept the words. He was-

"Bloody hell, do you have to be a complete asshole about everything?" suddenly snapped the Australian, hands rolling into fists inside his pockets, "He's new here, dick. Cut 'im some slack."

The Engineer looked over to him, surprised he'd stand up for him.

As for the Spy, he merely laughed a little longer until it died down entirely, a soft inhale signifying the end of his amusement.

"Slack? That's far too boring. I'd rather cut other zhings," replied the now unamused Spy as he took out a butterfly knife from his sweaty tuxedo's sleeve, _"Slack,_ is far too boring."

The Sniper, frighteningly, _grinned_ at this, showing off his unusually pointed canines as he took out his own massive knife. "Ah-ah-ah. Careful spook," he teasingly threatened, "You mioght make me angry."

"If that's all it takes to get under your skin with words, I can only imag-"

"YEE'D BE UPSETTIN' ME GOOD EYE WITH YER... Yer bendiness..." loudly spat a tired Demoman, his intoxicated frame slumped over the Soldier's left shoulder. Everyone, except the Medic, as the doctor was too busy apathetically reading a German copy of _Catcher in the Rye,_ looked over to the drunk, surprised for a good ten seconds seconds before Pauling cleared her throat.

"Agreed, Demoman," she concurred, "Gentlemen, could you please put your knives away? I have to write a weekly report to the Higher-ups about your behavior. I would very much like them to think that this Unit is not made up of armed toddlers, thank you."

Scowling, the two men both put the knives away, each giving the other a brief death glare before briskly getting in their places amongst the others. Already, a rivalry had sparked. Miss Pauling merely sighed, adjusted her glasses in her professional way as she viewed the men, and turned to the wall again.

"Right. Now, where's the notch...?" she whispered, her hands slowly feeling the rough cliff face as they struggled to detect a difference in the rocks. The Sniper quickly walked over to her, putting his hand on hers and stopping her.

"Lemme," he offered. Pauling stood skeptical, but stepped back as the lanky assassin trailed his own calloused fingers along the dusty rocks, stopping at a little nick in the wall. He then tugged off the rock, revealing, oddly enough, a panel containing numerous buttons.

"Huh... How resourceful of you, Sniper," murmured Miss Pauling, "You've been here before, I take it?"

"Oi get around a lot," the marksman replied with a shrug, stepping back for the youthful Overseer to punch in the code. Everyone gathered around to see her punch in the code 2-2-6-1, and took a step back to watch a fold in the wall... Decloak? And slide open like a garage door, revealing a dusty, old cement entrance to the base.

"Well, let's head in, gentlemen," spoke the Overseer as she went ahead of the others.

It took a second for him to process what had just happened, but the Engineer quickly snapped out of his daze and followed the others into what he supposed was a foyer, though it looked more like a locker room. Grimy floors that must've been white at some point lay around the filthy area, and the rotting brick walls shared the same corroding grime. Old lockers hung along the brick, worn and dented from previous use, dim lighting doing barely so much as to spark a little reflection on the rusty metal. A flight of stairs leading up to higher sections of the base sat on the other end of room, said staircase already having a certain Australian Sniper marching up already.

"Lookout tower's mione," he established as he trekked up the stairs, "Anyone who differs can talk it out with my kukri."

Nobody argued. At first, the Engineer assumed it was out of fear of the threat, but the more he thought, the more he realized that a small tower high in the desert air wasn't a desirable bedroom. He wondered why his 'friend' would want it. Either way, if the Medic was slightly curious, he certainly didn't show it.

"Vell... Uber treatments will take place at six tonight," he stated, closing the paperback as he carried up his luggage like they were filled with mere feathers, pretty much hopping up the stairs, "I'll be in zhe Infirmary!"

"But you-" Pauling began, before biting her lip, "Ugh, never mind, you've probably been here before..." she muttered, tucking her clipboard under her arm.

The Soldier cleared his throat. "Uh, miss? Where are the rooms?" he asked to the teenager, still carrying a drunken Demoman.

Before she could respond, a drunken pitch did it for her. "In... In yer mum's ass..." immaturely sung the Demoman, "Then again, so is everything!"

Pauling's eyes widened at the gruesome display of unprofessionalism, while, not so surprisingly, the Soldier laughed at this.

"Ha! A drunken man of words! I like you!"

The Engineer felt like a horrible person for wanting to laugh at Miss Pauling's dumbfounded expression.

"Well, ah hate you!" snorted the drunk.

"Wha- Really?" frowned the Soldier, looking down to the drunk, somewhat hurt while the Overseer stood thoroughly appalled, "Well-"

"Ah'm juuuust kiddin'!"

The American grinned. "Ha! I've got a feelin' we're gonna be friends!"

"Hee-hee!"

"Ha-"

"Get me out of here," growled the irritated Spy, looking over to the systematically staggered Pauling in thorough annoyance, _"Now."_

"Y-Yes," she quickly nodded, snapping out of her bewilderment, "C...Come along... Gentlemen."

The Engineer cautiously walked up after the Overseer, hoping to get to know the base's interior. Part of him forgot that they were essentially dwelling in a cliff ledge as he wandered upwards, the rest of the Unit following behind. The rest of the base, fortunately, was in better shape than the locker room. There was graffiti here and there, sure, but despite some rather immature carvings of swear words here and there left by the previous basket cases, the base was still quite functional, lights shining fairly brightly and faded white tiles only mildly dirty. When they reached what he assumed was the second floor, Miss Pauling led them to a hallway containing eighteen doors, made of fairly thin, but sturdy steel.

"These are the bedrooms," explained Miss Pauling, "They're all exactly the same, so there's no need to blow each other up for a room."

"Uh... Why're there eighteen?" asked the Engineer, confused, "There's only nine of us, includin' you, Miss. And why're they made outta steel?"

The Spy sneered. "Ah, pauvre, débile inexpérimenté..." he smirked, "La mort sera un rapide pour vous~!"

Much to everyone's surprise, this gained a stern glare from the Heavy of all people.

"That ees _not nice,_ leetle Spy," he glowered.

"Oh? You know French?" asked the Spy, genuinely interested, "Are your skills in it as fluent as your ones in English?"

"No. Better. Not good at English," explained the Heavy, "Ees a hard language to learn. Many words."

"I never would've guessed," mocked the Frenchman. Without further word, he rolled his shoulders slightly, gaining a satisfying crackle, and proceeded to silently prowl away down the hall.

Pauling looked over to him with a concerned frown, "Spy?" she called, "Aren't you going to claim a room?"

"Non," he replied as he stalked through the hallway, "I hate zhese rooms. I will sleep elsewhere."

The young Overseer shrugged. "Suits you, I guess," she muttered, before turning to the Engineer again, "Oh, I'm sorry, your question?"

"_Questions_. And yeah, if it ain't too much trouble," nodded the Engineer.

"The reason there's eighteen is because sometimes Units can hold up to eighteen combatants. An insane amount," she murmured with the slightest shiver, to which the Engineer full-heartedly understood. Monitoring the Soldier alone would've already been a handful enough, "And the reason they're steel is because it stops people from writing moronic things like, _'The Hunter was here,' _or, _'This is the Sniper's room,' _on the doors."

"Ah. Makes sense," smiled the Engineer.

"Good," finished Pauling, "Now, if you excuse me, I believe I'm going to claim the room at the end of the hall."

The Engineer had no objections. He simply shrugged and selected the room nearest to him, pushed the steel open and entered a surprisingly clean space. Small, but with room enough for his things. He frowned at first at the fact there were no windows in the brick walls, but then he remembered that they were in a cliff face. Uncomfortable as that was, it was logical that there wouldn't be any windows on this floor. Tiredly, the Engineer set down his suitcase on the red blankets covering the small bed in the corner, and it was there he realized something; So far, things hadn't been so horrible. Yeah, it sucked he was with a bunch of mental defectives, and that he wasn't allowed to leave, but so far, one near death experience aside, he hadn't actually gotten into a fight with anyone. Maybe he wouldn't see any battles at all? Maybe he didn't have to involve a single finger in the fights? He smiled to himself. Perhaps things would be ok. Besides, the more he thought, the more he realized that the team, zany natures and craziness aside, weren't so awful. So far, anyway. With a soft smile and surprising hope, he turned- Inadvertently clunking heads with an upside-down Pyro, the firebug hanging from the ceiling by its boots, which were somehow pinched in the lights so it suspended five feet off the dusty white floor.

"JESUS!" he cried, falling on his rear as the enigma suspended above him, pleasantly waving.

"Mmpho!" it sung.  
(Hello!)

"H-How the hell did you get up there?!" cried the Engineer in alarm, "...Naw, better question; _WHY_ ARE YOU UP THERE?!"

"Hrm... Muff meffaries muff hu hudmr mif," it explained, "Mephmdes mouffenmeeferymoun mffph?"  
(Um... The fairies told me to do it. Besides, doesn't everyone like being on the ceiling?)

"..._'Fairies?'"_ asked the Engineer, reading the translation brackets in disbelief, "...Y... Y'all alright in the head there, son?"

The Pyro unhinged itself from its lopsided stance and plopped down on its toes.

"Mm-hmm!" it chirped, "Hudda! Hura mhp pph!"  
(Mm-Hmm! Yeah! Balloonicorn told me so!)

The Engineer grimaced. "...Could you please leave?" he asked, unwilling to carry on his conversation with the Pyro. The Pyro didn't seem to realize that it had unnerved the Texan, and simply nodded vigorously, frolicking out the door with a merry cheer emanating from its mask. The Texan quietly closed the door behind it and slumped against the wall, eyes studying the bare room in reconsideration.

He took it back. This kinda did suck.

(-)

"...So then, I found my whole house was robbed by Commies, and replaced with _identical objects!"_ snarled the Soldier as he stood against the wall of the waiting room, his cigar almost comically poking out from his teeth as he discussed his ludicrous tale, "Can you believe their audacity? Scumbags! They deserved the rockets I sent at them! Every last one!"

"Which, _'every last one?'"_ asked a more bored than intrigued Sniper, hat resting over his eyes and legs folded whilst he sat on a plastic chair he was far too tall for, "The Communist's '_death'_ you gave 'em, or all rockets?"

"Hmm... Good question, Private Stretch!" frowned the Soldier, scratching his chin as he stood somewhat stumped, "Both, I suppose."

"Nioce," frowned the marksman, choosing to end the conversation and sleep for the rest of the wait. The Soldier didn't seem to notice the apathy though, as he simply started going on about his story again, which, from the fragments of information the Engineer had sadly bothered to pick up on, was about how the Communists turned out to be a secret army of evil robo-toasters out to kidnap Lady Liberty from the Soldier's passionate devotion and make her into Lady Frau of the Neo Nazis, or something equally as LSD induced. By this point, he'd stopped questioning the Soldier's definition of, 'story-telling,' so he let it slide.

Instead, the edgy Texan eyed the clock ticking away on the red wall across from him in his plastic seat, sweating palms slowly strumming the tuned strings of his acoustic whilst he wondered when it'd be his turn for this, 'Uber,' thing the Medic had been talking about. A certain Texan caught his stomach lurching a little at the thought of an operation. If he hated one, sole thought, it was one of being cut open. The thought of lights in his unshielded eyes, the thoughts people messing around with his organs, his own blood on other people's fingertips... A shiver involuntarily surged through him at the disgusting topic. He never liked learning about the body in all it's disturbing features. One biology class in High School, which he swapped with music after the first day. But the Texan quickly eased himself at the knowledge that he'd be sedated, so it wouldn't be like he'd have to watch. Even a doctor like the Medic, creepy and twisted as he was, wouldn't operate on patients while they were conscious, right?...Right?

_Don't you think that, _mentally scolded the Engineer, subconsciously laughing at himself for fearing a doctor, _You know better than ANYBODY that a problem will burn ya harder if you give it kindling, you moron!_

Getting back to something not quite as screwed up, the Engineer had been somewhat surprised at how clean the waiting room was, how little to no dust trailed on the floor, how the walls showed no sign of disrepair. It was exactly what you'd expect from a waiting room, just filled with mercenaries instead of sick people. There were even a bunch of mostly usable plastic chairs waiting for them as opposed to the spiked iron seats he'd been half-expecting. Though, he had to note that few were duct-taped together from previous use, undoubtedly from stupid fights molded from the boredom of waiting, while others had verbal offences and genitals scratched into them, like the large 'F-YOU' currently being scribbled by a certain drunk Scotsman into a spare chair. Still, he was waiting outside a doctor's office, and if the Engineer felt squeamish about anything, it was being cut op-

_DAMN IT, ah'm doing it again! _he mentally exclaimed, exasperated with the waiting._  
_

Right now, the Pyro was in the office, silence being the only sound penetrating the thick metal doors between them and the events taking place on the other side. The Heavy had already been finished by the time the Engineer had arrived, but he hadn't taken a good look at the giant, or the Pyro before heading in. Briefly, he wondered if the Medic was really screaming about an alien in their midst upon striping the Pyro of its suit. Then, he wondered if the Pyro would burn the Medic and everyone else for discovering its identity. He thought of himself, cowering and pushing his stocky frame into a corner as he store into the pitch black optics of the firebug's gasmask right before it incinerated him with its flamethrower. He coiled his muscles as a grimace stretched on his face. Deciding to rightfully drop the subject, he went back to doting to his nervous habits of strumming his guitar. His fingers slipped along the resilient strings, notes connecting loosely into a song he'd been taught as a young teenager, but loosely was the keyword. Disjointed notes from the soft instrument didn't calm him nearly as much as an actual song would, but he was afraid that the Spy might slice off the strings in annoyance if he got too invested in a full-on melody, being the prick the Frenchman was. The Engineer liked his guitar. So there he sat, sweat dripping down his stocky frame as the endless, tense seconds thrummed louder in his ears than the sweet, simple notes. The song was somewhere in the distance, he could hear it faintly past his hammering heart and the old clock on the wall... So why was it so hard to focus on it? Why was his heart racing like the horses at a Kentucky derby? Why was his mind swelling with horrible ideas that might take place if he walked through those doors? The suspense was eating away his sense, and no amount of pretty strumming would kiss it better. He-

_Click_

The doors to the Infirmary slid open, pausing all other sounds as everyone store at the virtually unchanged Pyro standing before them, the only difference being a small, near unnoticeable stitch over where it's heart rested under the suit.

"Well?" asked the Spy, putting down a dirty magazine as he observed his unusual colleague, bitterness lingering in him as always, "Was it even a _marginally_ correct procedure?"

The Pyro store at its fellow masked employee for a few seconds, seemingly confused with his question. Eventually, merely it shrugged and responded with a confused-sounding muffle.

"Mrph hudda muh?" it guessed, before leaving of the waiting room and singing/muffling, _'Do you believe in magic?'_ Once the Pyro left, everyone sat in silence for a few seconds. It wasn't a tense one, so long as you didn't ask the Engineer.

"I vould like zhe Engineer next, bitte!" called the doctor from the other side of the cracked open doors, the sound of tap water running into a sink stifling his voice ever so slightly.

All eyes met the Texan, expecting him to stand. Slowly, the Engineer obeyed the stares and walked past his apathetic colleagues, nervousness magnifying itself with every bead of developing sweat. His feet slowly tread the tiles under him as his hand gently touched the metal of the doors. The Texan paused briefly as a flutter of apprehension made an occupancy of the constricted space that was his chest's interior. His fear was binding around him like a damn boa constrictor.

"He aion't gonna kill ya," consoled the Sniper from his seat, legs crossed, hat still covering his shades whilst his arms remained folded behind his head, "And even if oi'm somehow wrong and he comes at ya with a kniofe, just kick him in the nuts or something."

The Engineer processed the words of encouragement from his sleepy friend. The Sniper was still staring at the interior of his hat, body language nonchalant and his mind already gone for Cloud 9, but that was still a pretty damn nice gesture from him, considering that he had threatened everyone with knife from when he last saw him.

"Thanks," he murmured as he left through the entrance.

The Infirmary was also a bit different from what he'd expected. The Engineer thought it'd be a clean, white room with a gurney or two, along with some shelves of medicine and a couple hospital beds. The Infirmary, really, was about the size of an elementary school classroom, with old, decaying brick walls that held numerous shelves holding lopsided tomes and bottles of medicine. A cabinet rested here and there, one in particular open and filled with operating tools (along with torture devices) lying against a shelf. There was a mini-fridge topped with a stack of books written in Latin, the Medic's birds hopping across them without care. The humming of florescent lights brushed his eardrums and cold air brushed his skin. His eyes soon caught no less than thirty scented, white candles sitting lit all over the room at various heights, and... Also caught a black, expensive coffin resting the far corner, standing tall with a frame of gold. It looked like it could've housed Frankenstein as it stood about the size of the Heavy, standing upright on the blood stained concrete floor-

_What?_

He looked again to the grey floor. Yup, no question, that was blood. _...Behind an operating with __**steel restraints**__ sitting in the middle of the room..._

"Ah, hello!" called the Medic as he walked over, rubbing what looked like blood off his hands with a face that looked like he'd been given a beautiful surprise party. He was no longer wearing his lab coat, and instead was clad in a beige, buttoned vest over a nice red tie and a white, and a somewhat bloodied dress shirt, "Have a seat over zhere. On zhe operating table, bitte."

The Engineer followed the gaze towards the steel, blood-sprinkled deathbed and naturally gulped at the sight of it. "N-No... Thank you."

The Medic snickered, "Come, come now! Jitters, already?"

"Yeah. Ah tend to dislike the idea of being cut open," frowned the Texan, backing away slowly, "It's just... Ah kinda like... Y'know... NOT being dissected and operated on, even if it's fer mah benefit..."

"Dissect you? Please!" laughed the Medic, giving the uneasy Texan a pat on the shoulder, "Enjoyable a thought as zhat is, I'm afraid you'd be awfully useless vithout your organs. ...Though, zhat vould make an interesting experiment..." he immediately noted the paleness on the Texan's visage, _"But,_ I'd rather test it on zhe Soldier first," he quickly recovered, "Either vay, you have nothsing to vorry about. It's just a standard procedure, nothsing more. Remove your shirt, please."

The Engineer frowned. The Medic's insistence did not reassure him in the slightest. But, he complied and slipped the red fabric off from under the straps of his overalls, still remaining wary of the doctor and his movements as he exposed his upper half of scarred skin to the chilly air. He instantly shivered, as he found right away that the Infirmary was freezing. He wondered how the Medic was showing no signs of being affected by the coldness lingering around them, how he was moving briskly without the slightest shiver or goosebump.

Currently, there was a look of distant curiosity was on the German's face as he looked at the various degrees of burns all around the Texan's chest, stomach, upper arms and various places on his back.

"Must've hurt to have gotten zhose," he observed.

The Engineer grimaced as he looked down to the rubbery, deep red scars amongst several cut-originated mutilations he'd been unlucky enough to earn all those moons ago, a small headache threatening to bite him. He really didn't enjoy looking at them. "Ah... Ah don't like talkin' about 'em..." he uttered, softly.

The German seemed to understand. He dropped the subject and gestured for the Engineer to have a seat at the table. Slowly, the Texan moved towards the table, but stopped.

"Ah ain't going on a deathbed that's got restraints," he firmly stated.

Surprisingly, the Medic listened. "Understandable, Herr Engineer. Zhey were only zhere because zhe Pyro kept squirming. Poor little thing, it's so unusual for one like zhe Feuer bug to have many questions..." The German explained whilst loosening a few bolts on the restraints with a screwdriver he seemingly summoned from nowhere, "Kept pointing at everything, asking, 'vhat vas zhat?' or, 'vhat's zhat zhing over zhere?' Sigh, poor, poor Pyro... No one can hear zhe poor bastard!"

A question popped into the Engineer's head at the discussion of the local pyromaniac. "Hey, doc?"

"Hmm?"

"...What IS Smoky?" asked the Engineer, "Ah mean, you did get a look at him... Her... It, since you operated on it, didn't cha?"

The Medic laughed. "I've sworn myself to secrecy, mein friend," he smiled, "A doctor never discusses his patients with other patients."

"That's a load of horseshit," frowned a disappointed Engineer as the Medic finished detaching the restraints from the steel bed. The Medic simply chuckled some more.

"Well, I can say zhis; Out of all of us, I zhink Pyro vould have zhe hardest time reintegrating into society, rivaled only by zhe Soldier... Und possibly myself," he smirked, tossing the restraints on the floor, "Zhere, done. Now lay down."

The Engineer wondered briefly about what the doctor may have meant about the Pyro, but decided to brush it off as he seated himself on the table. The Texan instantly cringed at how damn cold it was, how the freezing metal practically stuck against his goosebump and burn-littered back. Something was telling him that EVERYTHING was wrong, and that everything in the physical world causing that mute, demanding urge to run should be destroyed. But, he chose to ignore it, and tried to calm his mind by focusing on his surroundings. Fruitlessly, of course. He didn't like the view of the ceiling very much, as it was made of soulless concrete, like the floor and held ridiculously strong florescent lights that hurt his eyes, of which somehow breached the interior of his goggles. Looking to sides did nothing, as a line of operating tools lay next to him, and the doctor's birds had begun to flock near him, cooing with interest. Creepy buggers. He couldn't look at himself, _scars__,_ but he could look up to see a weird looking gun hanging above him. Sleek in design, long, made of some form of fine metal. Sure wasn't like any gun he'd ever seen. The Medic approached him quietly, a scalpel in his hand as he store down the Texan. Not unlike a wolf staring down a crippled rabbit.

"Let's begin, ja?" he asked, creepy smile stretching on his face. The Engineer's eyes widened.

"W-Wait! Don't ah get sedated first?!" he exclaimed, instinctively backing against the frigid steel. The Medic laughed.

"Trying to make sense? You _must_ be new here!" chirped the German.

Before the Engineer could move, the Medic had flicked a button on the gun hovering above him, causing the contraption to suddenly hum to life, and causing a warm, red glow to waft from its nozzle and to drift along the frigid air, emitting the sort of tender warmth you'd expect from a campfire. The Engineer expected it to be some kind of gas, that once inhaled, he'd fall asleep. ...He was kind of wrong? Instead, upon coming into contact with it, the Texan felt his entire body involuntarily relaxing, all the while sending a feeling of holy rejuvenation through him, like he was taking a nice bath without water, or stripping. He was oddly at peace, just feeling his body rest in the warm haze of the unusual gun. He closed his eyes and sighed in his peaceful elation.

"Jesus... _What is that?"_ he asked in the oddest mix of puzzlement and relaxation, tongue heavy as he lay feeling both the most peaceful and the most concerned he had within the last two months.

"A Medi-gun," said the Medic, slapping on a pair of rubber gloves, "You're brand new to zhis, aren't you?"

"Yup, thought it was obvious," smiled the Engineer, eyes still shut as he continued to question, "Anyways, a Medi-Gun? What's it do?"

"Eh. Self-explanatory. Speeds regeneration, and forces any metallic substances, like bullets for example, out of the body through cuts and such. Zhey're godsends on zhe battlefield."

"Huh," mused the Engineer, thinking over the craziness and the usefulness of a device like that, "That's incredible... How come they ain't in the military, or the Hospitals? Why only here?"

The Medic shrugged. "RED and BLU invented zhem, and if zhere's one zhing to note about both of zhem, it's zhat zhey hate sharing. Zhink of overly privileged toddlers in charge of a toy store," enlightened the Medic with a chuckle, "Anyvay, brace yourself; Zhis may hurt a bit."

A mild prick of pain was sent throughout his system. The Engineer quickly opened his eyes and turned to the source, wondering what did it. He paused as he store at his chest, sea-green eyes filling with horror as he found that knife was already slightly penetrated into the base of his neck, slowly sliding along his skin.

The Medic stopped in mild surprise as he saw his own wrist in the grasp of the Engineer's sweaty palms, the stocky combatant ready to snap it off.

"THE HELL-"

"Hey, stop zhat," scolded the Medic, calmly looking toward the Engineer as his dark eyes shined ever so slightly from the red glow, "Herr Engineer, how can I proceed if you have my wrist in a death grip? I assure, you von't die or anysing, as zhe Medi-Gun is keeping you alive by being on at its lowest setting. Please, release my hand." He requested, seeming almost unaware that he was carving a hole in the Engineer's chest.

"The hell ah will, ya goddamn psychopath! What the hell's this 'Uber' you keep talking about anyway?!" cried the Engineer, refusing to accept the words of the doctor, "Y'all keep going on and on about it, and nobody tells me what the hell it means!"

"Zhe Uber, is a small electronic device planted on your heart zhat makes your system compatable vith zhe Medi-Gun at its full potential," explained the Medic, "Right now, if I turned it up any higher, you vould go into shock."

The Engineer paused as he store at the thing keeping him alive, taken somewhat aback. Thing was just full of surprises, wasn't it?

"An Uber in use will only vork to its full potential vith zhe first Medi-gun it's introduced to, vhich is vhy everyone must get zheirs changed upon switching Units, und vhy I, as a Medic, remain only responsible for zhe seven of you. Or eight, if you count Pauling. A Medi-gun can also make you temporarily invincible, as well as a few other zhings," continued the Medic, "But you need zhe Uber first. If you don't have zhat, zhen your chances of dying substantially rise. None of us, besides possibly our idiotic Spy, vant zhat. You're zhe Engineer. If you go, und our veapons und power go, ve're dead in zhe water."

"So ah'm yer insurance policy is basically what yer sayin'," muttered the Engineer, still hesitant, but still slightly loosening his grip somewhat as he processed the words.

"No. ...Vell, I didn't SAY it you vere zhe insurance, I IMPLIED it... But... Vhat I'm trying to say is zhat you're... Ah! You're a credit to zhe team. Perhaps more so zhen zhe ozhers, as you're somevhat important, unlike half zhe people here. You're actually fairly necessary if ve wish to live," spoke the doctor as one of his birds perched on his shoulder, which he stroked compassionately, "Herr Engineer, I know you don't vant to be here, ja?"

"Yeah," frowned the Texan, "All that's keepin' me from runnin' is, well... Mah obligation. And death threats. And a debt. Which ain't no fun at all."

"Ja. All you vish to do is go home, yes?" asked the Medic, "You aren't like the rest of us, Herr Engineer - you don't vant to kill people. Zhe zhought frightens you. You don't vant to become a monster, like so many ozhers in zhis trade of ours. Now, vhile inconvenient, zhat's respectable. But, vith zhis respectability, comes vulnerability. If you von't fight back, you're far more likely to fall in battle," he explained, "Und a good vay to prevent a horrible, horrible death is getting zhe Uber, und cooperating vith your doctor. Verstanden?"

The Engineer listened, and his mind hesitantly drank the German's words. He looked down at the scalpel, watching it glimmer faintly in the red haze, and listened to the sounds of his stomach lurching inside him. Something was gravely wrong about this, not just the obvious fact that he was going to be cut open, but something else in him was screaming at him to simply, and brutally, dispatch the Medic and run into a corner. His head became light as the scent of his own blood began to seep into his nostrils, and his muscles shuddered. Yet, he knew what had to be done. He loathed it, he loathed it with every fibre of his being, but it was inevitable. Slowly, he let the Medic's hand go and focused on the back of his eyelids as he pulled his face into a grimace.

"Make it quick," he hoarsely requested. If the Engineer hadn't shut his eyes so tightly, he'd see the Medic nod slightly in understanding as the knife began to slide across his sternum, leaving him cringing a little at the mild stinging sensation. He was actually somewhat disturbed that he didn't feel any real pain from the incision besides how one would feel upon getting a splinter. He felt the Medic's gloved hands pull the skin. He wouldn't open his eyes. He swore it, he swore it...

His lungs were pink? He didn't know that. He gaped in disgust and in pure curiosity at the Medic and his organs, watching the latter move and squirm inside him. His eyes widened at the sight of his heart shuddering, his lungs rising and falling with every gasp, his intestines coiling together upon being told to do so... It was without a doubt, the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen. The Medic, on the other hand, looked like he was in candy-land, letting out an almost comical, dreamy sigh.

"Zhe body is beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, "So many zhings vorking exquisitely... It's a perfect machine, _vouldn't you_ _agree?"_

"Ah, ah can't..." the Engineer grimaced, shivering. Not from the cold.

"Vell," said the Medic as he took out a strange, small mechanical device from a cupboard in one hand, presumably the 'Uber,' and his scalpel in the other, "Let's get started, shall we?"

The Engineer felt something squirming at the back of his head, giving him a headache. And goddamn, he didn't like it. He felt his heartbeats ringing throughout the open air, every pang unnaturally loud as he squeezed his eyes shut, fear washing over him as the Medic prepared to extract the blood pumping muscle. He couldn't take it. "...Sedate me!"

"Eh?" asked the Medic.

"Please, sedate me!" repeated the Engineer, turning his head away in repulsion, "This... This ain't-"

The Medic scoffed, "Oh, Engineer, don't be a baby. It's only a little bit of-"

"No, y'all don't understand – A-Ah can't do it!" cried the Engineer, panic rising as he store at the open skin, "Ah just can't stand any of it! Either you stop right now an' patch me up, or you sedate me, right now!"

The only sound in the room was the humming of the Medi-gun. For a while, neither of the men spoke. The Engineer still looked up, seriousness of his plea practically dripping from his visage whilst the Medic stood, somberly looking his patient down, eyes softly shining in both understanding and in disappointment. He sighed and muttered something in German and brushed away the bird from his shoulder, briefly leaving for a cupboard on the wall. Soon, he came back with a syringe filled with a clear liquid, and poked it in the Engineer's shoulder. The effects kicked in almost immediately, coldness seeping through his veins and a sleepy sensation brushing the back of the Engineer's eyelids.

"I hope you're happy," scowled the Medic, "You've dampened zhe fun of zhe procedure."

The Engineer didn't care in the slightest. He just let the serum fill his bloodstream, shut his eyes and slipped away into a dream, closing himself off to the world of the frowning doctor and his creepy birds and entering one full of motherly love and pancakes.

The Medic merely adjusted his glasses with a scowl. But, it soon died down to mere disappointment and the smallest, minuscule traces of sympathy.

"Poor, poor you. You aren't going to enjoy your time here," grimly stated the Medic as he leaned towards the open chest cavity, "Not in zhe slightest, Spielzeug-Hersteller..."

(-)

The smack across the face had been unexpected.

"Wha-?!" slurred the Engineer as he opened his eyes to the blinding Infirmary lights and the Medic's pearly grin, "Where am ah?! Th' hell just happened?!"

"Finished zhe Uber," explained the Medic, "Und..." the Medic hesitated, before swiftly deciding to hide the fact he'd actually gone ahead and extracted about three liters of the Engineer's blood, "...Gave you a shot to help with your blood flow. Your blood pressure was actually quite low, Herr Engineer. It should be regulated a little now, though."

The Engineer said nothing, simply acknowledging the doctor and the snow-white dove perched on the exposed, scarred skin of his chest whilst his head sat on his shoulders feeling light as a feather. The Engineer wasn't placing his focus on his swirly vision that much however. It was on the bird, fairly creeped out with the little feathered creature. He wasn't fond of birds to begin with, but The Medic's were just plain odd, and eerily seemed like they were just as intelligent as the people around them. The bird store away at him with its soft black eyes, peering interestedly at the lying man with some sort of questioning gaze.

"Temista, off zhe Hündin , bitte," called the Medic with a whistle, sending the bird fluttering off the Engineer's chest and into the doctor's palms, "Apologies. She gets very curious about guests."

The Engineer nodded a little as he looked around in mild confusion. His memory began to put the pieces together, earning his new signature grimace and repulsion. The Medi-gun was deactivated, the immobile healing weapon merely hanging eerily from the ceiling whilst he lay, mind foggy and his chest hurting like hell.

"Ow..." he groaned as he placed a hand on the sore skin. The Medic leaned to the Texan's eye level, mild joy from satisfying his inner sadist shining from his ebony gaze.

"Zhe soreness vill go avay overnight, and zhe effects of the sedation should fully fade vithin half an hour," he assured, offering his gloved hand to help the stocky man up, "Vhat occurred vhile you vere unconscious vas a standard procedure. Nozhing wrong took place," explained the Medic, "Enjoy zhe rest of zhe day. Tell zhe Sniper he's next, ja?"

The Engineer took the doctor's offer and shakingly fumbled with the older man's grasp. The Engineer brought himself to stand on his seemingly jelly-molded kneecaps with a face he was certain looked stoned. The world was a little bit blurred, but he could navigate fairly well.

Fairly well, really translating to about as gracefully as a lobotomised penguin with a missing foot, but hey, it was still navigating, and that was good enough for the moment. Staggering, he pushed himself out of the hell they called an Infirmary and to the World outside. The team was still there, right where he last saw them, still sitting (minus the Soldier) and doing whatever strange hobbies they enjoyed doing. The Engineer was pretty much on auto-pilot as he robotically told the Sniper he was next, his ears neglecting questions as he left for the stairs.

**A/N; Cool-leo. ...My wrists hurt. And I'm bored. And I think this chapter's worse than the last one. Ah well. Chapter #2 was finished a bit later than I would've liked, but school's been a bitch, so... Yeah. There wasn't much I could do. Well, if you're still reading this, and you somehow aren't that bored, maybe I'm doing **_**something **_**right. :P Anywho, see you next time.**

**Maybe.**

**Hopefully. XD**


	3. Desert Hush

**A/N; I'm sorry for the wait. I was sick about two weeks prior to this, and it was very, very hard to focus on doing anything but staring into the distance like a zombie and eating ice cream. Regardless, here's the third chappie, and t****his one's a tad shorter than the others. (THANK GOD e.e) Though, I don't feel the descriptions are that good this time around, and I don't really like this chap very much. It feels like... 'Eh.' :L I dunno, it's just been difficult to focus as of late, and I honestly don't know why. Regardless, I hope this is satisfactory.**

**Anyway, KREDEETS TO STORY; MickeyDismantle, you are awesomeness in a box with a side order of fries. And LexiLopezi, I thank you too for cheering me up with your review. That one slice of cake alone has kept me going for a long time. :3 I also thank the others who have following the story so far under silence, of whom shall referred to as the Rebels of Taciturnity from now on, because it's badass, and right now I'm thankful that people are actually taking the time to even LOOK at this crap. XD**

**I do not own TF2.**

**...**

_-Desert wilderness, Tamaulipas Mexico, 1962_

The kid typically liked walking, but Jesus, this freaking sucked.

If one stopped to observe the vast deserts of Tamaulipas amidst its harsh sunshine and endless oceans of sand from a perch atop the ravines, they might by chance spot a distant, starved wreck of a pasty-skinned boy stumbling along the endless, searing desert dunes in the far distance. From their remote position, they probably would not be able to view the kid's bare feet limping through the burning grains, nor the visible lines of his ribs hidden by the black prison-uniform worn by the Mann Wars' prisoners, but upon squinting, they might see little splotches of red streaming along his distant shape. While strange enough from this perspective, they still would've missed the real thing to write home about; The kid's eyes. The blazing, ice blue eyes housing the youthful will of a combatant, hardened over intense months of service, and holding the old soul of a survivor through his harsh gaze. If any of these metaphorical people lingered out there, they'd say they'd seen a fighter, others, a runner, but most a scavenger. While very close, they would all be fairly wrong about the boy's true identity. You see, the kid was all of these things, but more as in actuality, he was something that combined all of them; A Scout.

Coughing up a bit of his own blood as his fingers gripped the bleeding hole in his shoulder, the Scout pressed himself along the desert, thin T-shirt and torn, ragged pants doing little to block the sun as it drenched its blazing light over his chocolate-shaded hair and wiry frame. The thin sheet of ozone lining the sky did practically nothing to defend his scrawny frame from the sunlight, the boy's sweat slicking him in an uncomfortable suit of lubricant. A poorly-powered pistol limply swung in his sweat-slicked left hand, whilst his previously mentioned wound was caressed by his now blood-soaked right hand. The Scout's molars sat pinched together on his dry gums as he pressed his exposed, bleeding feet forward, not doing so much as wincing as it fried against the rough sand yet again. He'd been out there far too long to care about the burning crumbs underfoot. The kid needed to move.

The kid had forgotten how long he'd been out there, tossing himself over dunes and surviving solely on cactuses, tiny lizards and the buzzards he shot down occasionally, how long every breath of air had felt like serrated knives sliding along his throat, how long his head had been pounding like a kettledrum, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. All he bothered reflecting on was that he needed to find his way back to RED. That was all that was important. That was all he dared think about when it came to his personal life. Everything else, he tossed aside, like the sun tossing its sweltering rays over the sparkling, burning wilderness around him.

His quivering legs allowed him to make it to the top of the tallest, shimmering dune yet, and upon reaching it, his kneecaps crashed into the sand against his will, leaving him to sit briefly and pant away heavily, eyes squeezed shut as every dry, scraping heave racked his system. Part of the boy wanted to lie down and die, but he refused to listen to that part of himself. Instead of wavering, he pushed himself up and gazed over the edge, calculating the distance. Calculations complete, he slid himself surfer-style down the long, declining peak to help preserve his stamina, rough heels slipping down the virtual blanket of sand and his overheated cranium savouring the cool, momentary hush of wind sweeping across his sunburnt face on the way down. The wind carried his sweat away for a brief moment, reminding him of the buzz one gets when running, the glorious buzz he lived for on days where he wasn't dying. But, as soon as it began, the speed declined as the sand curved upwards into a slope again. Slide slowing to a stop, his mild thrill diminished, causing him to exhale through his nose in his frustrated state and robotically march up the next blistering hill of golden specks once again. His legs felt like gooey dough lodged inside thin lead pipes, and he briefly pondered if someone had shoved shrapnel in his sides on the way up. Upon reaching the summit of dune #5902, he paused and took a moment to observe. The azure plain above him remained tragically cloud-free, the sun rubbing itself in the boy's face both figuratively and literally as he turned his head away. Sand covered the world for miles, hills of the stuff smeared along in ridiculous numbers all around him. But, in the fairly close distance, about three dunes to his right off his current path, rested something entirely new that greatly caught him off guard. A flower.

Surprised, the boy hurriedly slid over to it, near desperate to get a close look at this change of scenery, wondering what the hell it was doing there. Crawling to the top of the dune where the flower rested, he crouched next to it and observed, hoping to recognize it as something edible. Unfortunately, spirits drooping somewhat, the flower didn't look like anything he'd ever seen before, collection of twelve petals sparkling in the sunlight like it had fallen out of a little girl's storybook, as well as changing between the colours of the rainbow every few seconds. It stood small, but enchanting as it danced somewhat in the infinitesimal wind. Initial oddness aside, the boy found he didn't really care about it's weird appearance at all. It was something that could conceivably be swallowed, and looked tasty. His fingers moved over to the stem in his great hunger, a soft voice at the back of his mind longing to facepalm at how desperate of a wreck the desert had left him.

"_That ain't too smart,"_ chastised the flower in a whisper, colours changing from a muted cream to a harsh cobalt as the boys scarred hands approached it, _"Ain't there other things you' supposed be doing, kid?"_

The kid barely listened and growled dismissively, ignoring the striking fact that a flower was talking to him as his fingers went to about half an inch away from the steam.

"_Well kid, lemme tell ya, there's plenty of other things waiting for you past me,"_ the flower said, petals swapping from the cobalt to a soft, seemingly warm tone of scarlet, _"You can stay out 'ere eating flowers, or go live what's left of your derisory life instead. The choice is all yours, pal."_

The boy halted himself for a moment as his mind sluggishly processed the flower's words. A trickle of curiosity briefly halted his hunger, eyebrows scrunched as he store fixedly at the talking plant.

"_Heh. Interested now, ain't you?"_ chirped the flower, _"You wanna know what I mean? Go on ahead, and find out for yourself. It'd be best for you to see everything you can. ...Y'know, before you die."_

That wasn't very nice. Not in the slightest, actually. The Scout was about to talk to the strange, rather callous sage-flower further, when a sudden gust of wind cast itself across the sand dunes, causing the kid to immediately shield his eyes as hundreds of sparkling particles ascended into the air, filling the low-ground atmosphere in a prickling, shimmering dust cloud and cascading down in a confetti-like manor afterwards. The soft shower of dust over his head slowly ending, the boy lowered his arm from before his eyes, and found that the flower had left as abruptly as it had arrived, leaving mere ripples of sand behind on the dune. The Scout hung his sand-laced arms tiredly beside him in disappointment at the realization it'd been a mirage. Damn shame, it'd served as decent company, and had looked really tasty. Sighing, the kid pushed himself up and faced the desert again. But now there was something else new in this direction; Little orange specks of far off cliff-faces on the horizon. Suddenly, his memory clicked. Weren't those the Ravines? He'd been there before. That meant he was somewhere in Dustbowl, didn't it?

Without further thought, he stepped forward with a grunt and continued to head off further along the blistering winds and blazing hills, roasting viciously in the sun and faintly wondering when he'd reach the end.

(-)

The Engineer swore a solemn oath to himself as he stood in the harsh sunlight; If the Spy hadn't killed the Soldier by the end of the month, he'd do it for him. No money down.

The groggy Texan stood half-awake against the sand-infused concrete that made up the front wall of the RED base's higher entrance, eyes bleary and threatening to shut as he swayed slightly in his rooted position. Dust licked his boots and wisped past his and his comrades' varying attires, the stuff practically fluttering along the rather spacious, open plateau the Unit had been ordered to stand in a line on. It'd been strange, learning that there was an entrance that rested at the top of one of the cliffs lodged in the Ravines roughly eighty feet off the earth, but upon thinking it over, he'd learned the other day that there was a gun that shot medicine, so he didn't really care about the little things anymore. Instead, he store away into the sky rippling along the horizon in distance, his dull, yellow hardhat and prized goggles being the only thing shielding his head from being sunburnt to hell as the golden rays of the late morning sun bathed the desert and the rest of the RED Unit forcibly standing in its harsh, unrelenting light. The Texan's mouth was dry, and his body threatened to fall over, but he stayed awake against the desiccated, sandy air anyway.

He had to, since the Soldier had threatened to kick his ass otherwise.

The military man in question stood rigid and proud before his eight fellow operatives, helmet shadowing the fury in his eyes and the edges of his sneer but an inch away from the bottom of his chin as he observed his fellow recruits in distaste of their 'weakness.' Somehow, the American remained unaffected by the heat in his trench coat, not even a single bead of sweat to be seen on his tough skin. And naturally, since he didn't process the heat, the others couldn't have been capable of processing it, either. This meant all of them, from the woozy-looking Pauling to the sweating Heavy. They all had to be tall and strong, like he was, all praise America like he did, and wake up for roll-call bright-eyed and eager outside the upper entrance like he did. All of these combatants, spare the Pyro, who seemed more unaware of its surroundings than anything, stood exasperated and angry before the horrible bane of their former genial morning, all gazing upon the paranoid American as they burned both externally from the sun, and internally from their untainted irritation.

"Zhe last time I checked, we weren't in zhe actual military," dryly muttered a coffee-craving Spy as the Soldier marched past him. The Soldier said nothing as he moved down the line, unamused with all of them, until he reached the Engineer at the very end, glaring the Texan in the eye.

"Do you intend to spread your repulsive Canada-Hippie-drugs to the team?" he growled, tone dead serious. The Engineer, in the meantime, blinked in confusion. What was this? A joke? A skit?

"Uh... No sir... But ah'm not Canadian, only half, cause 'a my Mom, and even then, ah was born and raised in Texas, so-"

"Alright, spare Commie, you all look like maggots," the Soldier stridently cut-off as he addressed his teammates.

"_Oh no,"_ mocked the Sniper in a flat monotone, hand sarcastically raised to his forehead like a stereotypical housewife in the presence of a mouse, _"Whatever shall we do."_

The Soldier seemed unaware of the idea of sarcasm. "Good thing you asked, Stretch!" he stated, tipping his dust-coated helmet, "There are a good deal of things you must know when virtuously guarding America!"

The Spy turned to the Sniper, silvery irises glinting in unamusement. _"Good work, sot."_

"_Oi didn't think he was that dense," _defended the Sniper in a whisper.

"Right then!" declared the Soldier, wind faintly rippling his jacket as he addressed his fellow operatives, "One; You know that book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Well, Willy Wonka was really a child molesting, Nazi-supporting scumbag who ran a weapon factory disguised as a candy place! If you see the fruity bastard anywhere in this proximity, blow him up! Two; I don't care what you brought up believing in, there ain't any Gods! Only the manliest of men, the Founding Fathers of America, Lady Liberty and the mighty symbol of the white-headed eagles! Three; Hippies are the scum of the earth! They were once good Americans, but they've been forcibly converted into pathetic, unsalvageable filth that mindlessly spreads in hopes of plaguing our fair nation with their weakness and soul-diminishing music of theirs! AND they supply the Canadians with their hippie-drugs! On their own, they can be defeated easily, but they are difficult to manage in crowds. Nevertheless, if you see any Hippies, THEY MUST BE DESTROYED! Four; Any Nazis you encounter are to be unconditionally OBLITERATED ON SIGHT, NO QUESTIONS ASKED! FOUR-"

"_Mon Dieu,"_ growled the Spy, rubbing the covered bridge of his nose in frustration, "Not two minutes in, and my questions have already progressed _far_ into zhe double digits. One; Why must we learn 'ow to guard America on _Mexican_ soil? Two; What does Monsieur Wonka, a character in a British story aimed for children, 'ave to do with defending a country five out of the nine of us aren't even from?" he looked over to the Pyro briefly, "...Possibly six?"

"Well Crouton," dismissed the American, "This simply goes to show that the German's subliminal messages have blinded you!"

"_Excuse_ me?" asked the Spy, giving the American his very best, _'are you shitting me?'_ look. The Engineer's face looked the same on the surface. But, if his goggles hadn't covered his eyes, one would see horror suspended in them, as it was with this sole statement that the Engineer's brain finally connected the dots. At first, the Texan had just thought the Soldier was, in delicate terms, dumb as a bag of hammers, if not a little paranoid. A man who simply couldn't learn, was fairly violent, and just had been a little loopy. He'd been dead wrong. The Soldier wasn't just stupid. No, no.

He was batshit insane.

"You will not be excused!" the patriot cried, "However, being the good Americans we are, we must realize that this was not entirely your fault, Private Crouton. The Germans have leaked junk information into every form of media under their fingertips, and it's quite effortless to establish that you've fallen victim to it."

"Oh, really?" dryly asked the Spy, voice dripping in apathy.

"Yes. They've sent brain-washing signals through the television sets to make you think like they do! But the symptoms with you seem to be the ones that happen pretty early on..." observed the Soldier, "So I think breaking you out of the brain-conditioning won't be too hard. Either way, they're trying their damn hardest to invade our brilliant nation, and we MUST stop them!"

"Mhp! M...Mhphomuf! Meefeemhpmuhamans, Mpphloder?!" asked the Pyro, quivering as it stood, slightly scared.  
(Oh no! Th...That's horrible! How will we stop them taking over the world, Soldier?!)

Unaware of the line resonating with face-palms, the Soldier merely grinned and slapped the Pyro on the shoulder, face gleaming with approval of the fire-bug's disquiet towards the country's great threats.

"A loyal one right here!" he smiled, "Glad to see that at least you see reason, Smoky Joe! Anyway, what we can do is head over to the Nazi Stronghold, Camp Schnitzel-biscuits and do recon. Then, we-"

The Engineer's brain partly felt like exploding within his skull at the sheer stupidity being spewed, but there was something else on his mind. A question. Why was the Soldier acting this way? How could one spew these highly literate words, but in such a stupid way run by outdated bias and paranoia? All the Soldier did was praise his country like it was his church, shout and declare how corrupt everything else was... He wondered if Pauling knew the answers he sought.

"I love how he's written off TV as evil brainwashing, yet he brought at least fifteen war movies," she coincidently scoffed under her breath.

"Uh, Paulin'?" he whispered as he leaned over towards her, "If it's alright to be askin', what's Solly's background?...Well, if I'm allowed to know. Don't want you getting' in no trouble."

"I couldn't share the information on his files with you, even if I wanted to," she briskly replied, not doing so much as looking towards the Texan as her professionalism remained practically glued to her face.

The Engineer sighed through his nose in disappointment. "Lemme guess; Rules?" he frowned.

"No," said Pauling, shaking her head, "...Well, if this was an ordinary situation, that'd the case. But I can't share, because... Well, his files don't exist."

Time paused for a moment.

"...Huh?" he asked in disbelief, making sure to keep his voice under the volume of the arid breeze.

"You heard me," nodded Pauling, "Absolutely nothing on him, besides an apartment address in Detroit," she stated, doing her very best to stand pin-straight against her shaking legs, "The superiors couldn't even find his Birth Record."

"That's... Crazy..." frowned the Engineer, "So, nobody knows where in Sam Hill he's from?"

"Nope," confirmed Miss Pauling, "Or, at least didn't care about it. ...In fact, part of me wonders if even he himself knows where he came from..."

"A John Doe then..." mused the Texan, unease and curiosity budding as the new information came to light.

"A _Jane_ Doe, actually," corrected Pauling.

"'_Jane'_?" repeated the Engineer, dumbfounded, "...But that's... Ain't that the _female_ equivalent to the name? Why-?" suddenly, his brain thought of something very, very horrible. "...You ain't tellin' me that he's actually...?!"

The Overseer's eyes widened as her right hand flung to her lips. "No! God, no!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice, repulsed by the sheer thought of it alone, "Jane... Jane Doe is an alias - Mr. Doe said that the enemy, _'wouldn't see it coming,' _or something along those lines during an interview with him...!" she shivered in disgust yet again, hands now rubbing her goosebump-littered arms, _"Eeugh..._ Well, thank you for that horrible mental picture, Engineer. Now, I won't be able to sleep for the rest of the week, _thanks."_

The Engineer felt like an idiot. "Ah'm..." he frowned, "...Jesus, that's gotta be in the top ten stupidest things ah've ever said..."

"Let's just... _Just drop it._ Please?"

The Engineer had no objections. "Fine by me... Again, awful sorry..."

"Anyway..." inhaled Pauling, composing herself, _"'Mr. _Doe,' is obviously a schizophrenic, but the people that interviewed him were incapable of pin-pointing how extreme it was," she stated, trying to calm herself, "So, not only does that make me unaware of whether he's talking to us or _Martians_ half the time, but he also refuses to take antibiotics for his condition."

The Engineer grimaced. "Holy... Guess you'll need more than a screwdriver to tighten his screws, huh?" he muttered.

"Yes, if there are actually screws left to tighten," murmured Pauling, "It's just... You can only wonder what he's actually _done_ with himself for all these years. Especially considering that having, _'racially insensitive, schizophrenic dogmatist of the American founding Fathers,'_ isn't exactly something you want on your résumé..."

"...Then he bought two of every animal on the planet, and then he herded 'em onto a boat, and then, HE BEAT THE CRAP OUTTA EVERY SINGLE ONE!" laughed the Soldier, far off his original topic and ramming two of the grenades formerly on his jacket together as he talked. As the madman's scraping laugh filled their figurative balcony in the cliffs, the Engineer stood and watched the brawny man with a pitying stare, contemplating what the Soldier might've been through before winding up at the glorious, horrible company of Reliable Excavation and Demolition. What did the man do with his time, march around and salute the dirt? Or did he hole up in some secluded corner and recite the National Anthem? While on the topic, what dreams did the Soldier get at night? Dreams of glory, or of desolation? The Texan probably would never know. All he could do was stare away and make theories on the madman's old life.

However, unknown to the Soldier and the others, his thoroughly inaccurate reciting of Sun Tzu's adventures would be the military man's last tangent of the morning.

Because, now that his book was finished, the Medic felt he'd had enough.

"Soldier, our dear friend Sun Tzu vas not among zhe living during ze time of Noah's Ark," he articulated, tucking his small book away into one of the two side pockets on his vest, "Vith zhis common knowledge now shared, und a giant burden lifted off my chest, I bid you all good day."

The Medic turned to leave, but the American instantly stopped the doctor by the end of the line, blocking the older man's path and glaring daggers at him from behind his ridiculously over-sized helmet.

"_Where the hell do you think you're going, Ex-Kraut?" _snarled the American.

The Medic complacently shrugged. "My birds are probably wondering vhere I am, und zhis sun isn't good for my completion. I fear I may be damaging my skin. Besides, all this Sun Tzu talk is giving me a slight headache."

The Soldier leered over the Medic ominously. "Do you _dare_ doubt the teachings of Sun Tsu?" he asked, full of ire and fury as he grabbed the doctor by the tie. The two store each other down, the Soldier tense and the doctor merely as apathetic as usual.

"I have no care for over-glorified imbeciles," The Medic casually stated, folding his arms behind his back as he remained somewhat suspended from the Soldier's grasp on his tie, "I personally prefer a good piece of fiction, anyvays."

Everyone looked at the practically hanging Medic like he was suicidal. The Soldier, the muscle-bound drill sergeant of lunacy and fury, could easily snap his neck from this position, yet the doctor continued to insult the man's expertise anyway. Smugly, no less.

"Fairy-tales shat out by hairspray-drinking single moms get you nowhere," growled the American, tightening his grip "Then again, you and your former Nazi-buddies have no morals at all, so I guess you need them. I take it back. Maybe you should stick to Hansel and Gretel, you useless maggot."

The doctor fixed his glasses a little. "Hansel und Gretel vas a moral-driven story vritten by Germans before hairspray was invented," he pointed out.

Hushed, breezy silence filled the plateau.

Then the Soldier's _'deal with bullshit'_ instincts decided to kick in. His fist took initiative and pummelled the Medic in the face, knocking the doctor belly-down to the ground without mercy.

"Hey!" cried the Heavy, stepping forward somewhat in disgust that the Soldier hit the Medic of their unit.

The Medic spat a little bit of blood as he looked up from his position on his belly. "I apologise. Vhat zhe fuck are you trying to do, Soldat?" he asked, almost disturbingly uncaring that a fist had just smashed into his jaw.

The Soldier clenched his teeth. "Trying to beat some sense into that balding head of yours, Kraut!" he snarled, pulling up his sleeves, "C'mon, you think you're hot shit, cupcake? Prove it!"

Now the Heavy had enough. Quickly, the Russian pushed his wide frame between the two men, much the Soldier's annoyance and the Medic's mild bemusement. He was quite threatening at his height of seven feet, eyes glinting on the surface in anger, but holding quiet hope deep-down to stop a senseless battle from taking place, especially one that the Soldier, his least favourite person on the team, could probably win.

"Ees enough. Leave doktor alone, leetle Soldier," snarled the Heavy, before turning to the Medic and offering him a hand, "Doktor feel OK?" he asked in all his broken English-speaking glory.

The Medic pushed himself off the ground a little, looking over to Heavy's giant, meaty hand with mild surprise as a small trickle of blood drizzled down his left temple. "Huh... Danke," he muttered, taking the giant's offer and slowly getting himself to stand.

The Soldier was far from amused. "Figures that the Commie'd be a traitor, too..." he spat as he clenched his fists, "This will NOT stand... SMOKY-JOE! FRAG-LEG!"

"Mph?" asked the Pyro, cocking its head slightly at the sound of its nickname, while Demoman remained silent, as he had no idea it was actually he that the Soldier was addressing.

"Both of you, serve your country, and assist me in disciplining these two for their incompetence!"

The Pyro store at them for a few seconds, dark optics shining in the sunlight as it stood perpetually still. Then, just as suddenly as it paused, it cheerfully released a disembodied squeal and skipped over to the infuriated men in merry innocence, as if it thought the Soldier had challenged it to a game of hide-and-seek as opposed to a battle.

The Demoman, on the other hand, was confused. "Aye now, who'd be 'Frag-leg?'" he asked in his amazingly sober state, looking at the fellow men in puzzlement, "Surely, he dun mean me?"

"I DO mean you, Cyclops!" cried the American impatiently, much to the Demoman's mild bafflement, "Help us defeat these traitors! It is your sworn American duty!"

The Demoman scoffed, cotton sleeves draped over each other. "Nay, lad! Swears dunnae count when ye'd be shitfaced. Besides, I wouldn't be drunk enough fer a stupid feat like that there. Yee can squabble aboot with these half-baked sons'a whores with me best blessin', though. ...No offence tae the two'o ye."

"Offence taken," curtly uttered the Medic, wiping off the blood dripping from his nostril with the back of his hand.

The American in the meantime, growled at the Demoman's lack of support, hands clenched and shaking. Like an angered lion, he charged over to the Scotsman with surprising speed and punched him right in the jaw, knocking the surprised Scotsman to the ground, much to everyone's varying levels of surprise.

"WHUT TH' FOOK-"

"YOU _SCUMBAG!"_ shouted the Soldier, "YOU SWORE UPON THE FLAG WITH LADY LIBERTY AS YOUR WITNESS, ONLY TO BETRAY HER A DAY LATER! STAND, YOU SKIRT-WEARING ENGLISHMAN, IT'S TIME MY BOOT AND YOUR ASS MADE A DATE!"_**  
**_

The Demoman picked himself up, jade eye clouded with smoldering anger. "Heh..." he humourlessly chuckled, _"THEY'LL BURY YER REMAINS IN A BLOOD'EH SOUPCAN WHEN I FINISH WITH YE!"_

The Soldier turned to the enigma behind him.

"SMOKY-JOE! STOP PLAYING WITH YOUR BOOTS AND DESTROY THE TRAITORS!"

"MMMMMMMMPHHHH!" the Pyro cried as it released its grip on the tips of its boots. The pyromaniac nobly leapt towards the Medic and the Heavy with a fire-axe covered in barbed wire it seemingly summoned from nowhere, like a mentally deranged princess serving as a knife-happy butcher.

"WE FIGHT TOGETHER!" shouted the Heavy, prepping his massive fists as he prepared for a duel.

The Medic didn't share the same motivation. "Vell... Ja, I guess..." he frowned.

Within the phenomenal course of ten seconds, it was an idiotic bloodbath. The lot of them were practically piling on each other, fists crashing with faces and blood dripping all over the rocky terrain of the plateau, battle cries echoing along the desert air. It was like a battle between five stupid, masterful slayers, each grandly superior in some form of combat as they all tore away at each other. The American eagle's discipline, the Russian bear's brute strength, the German wolf's tact and speed, the Scottish weasel's unpredictability and the enigmatic hummingbird's darting merriment as they escalated around each other, kicking up dust as they attempted to destroy each other.

A battle of idiots if you asked the Spy. The said Frenchman merely lit a cigarette from his position against the concrete and scoffed.

"Zhis is embarrassing," he spat, sauntering away, "Gentlemen, and lady, I believe I shall take my leave. If anyone is stupid enough to remain, feel free to tell me how our local idiot, drunk, fat-man and doctor's toddler-level battle resulted."

"You ain't hearing it from me," frowned the Sniper, adjusting his hat as he stood, "Oi'm leaving, too. This whole morning's been bloody ridiculous."

The Engineer agreed. This whole morning had been like a horrible LSD trip. Hands in his pockets, the Texan mutely turned to leave as well, feeling there was no need to share his piece. He'd taken his first step, when a sudden small, yet firm hand precipitously placed itself on his shoulder, drawing him back through a surprising amount of force. He was turned to face Pauling, pure frustration shining through the Overseer's gaze as she gazed deep into his soul, before cocking her head back to face the two other assassins.

"Not so fast, gentlemen!" she stated firmly, pausing the two.

"Hmm?"

"Yeh?"

"I have a job for you," said the Overseer, removing her hand from the crisp cotton of the Engineer's shirt and adjusting her glasses with a fluid motion, "The both of you, and the Engineer. It isn't at all exciting, but it is important."

The Engineer paused. He had a job?

"Uh... What is it, Miss?" asked the Texan, taking off his hardhat and scratching his buzzed, dirty-blond hair, unsure of what this exactly meant.

"Engineer, you have to set up Teleporters around the area. The Teleporters you set up are designed only to respond to DNA signature of you, and those with Ubers that share the same frequency as yours, in other words, us. It'd be useful for you to set as many as you can up so we can get to various locations around the field more quickly and efficiently. They're short-ranged, but effective."

"Uh, alright," frowned the Engineer, "How many do I set up? And where do ah put 'em?"

"Twenty sounds good for now. Have them link up with the big one in the base. ...You do know which one I'm talking about, yes?"

"Ah think so. The one in the basement?"

"Yes. And place them anywhere that it would be convenient for us to go instantly to, and out of plain sight. Like, atop ledges a fair distance away, or maybe in some sort of cave we can evacuate to if the base possibly gets totalled. The Teleporter kits are in the armory on the third floor."

"What does zhis 'ave to do with us?" asked the Spy, nurturing his cigarette as his eyes gleamed with distaste. His silver eyes met Pauling's ebony ones, the Overseer folding her arms with a puckered brow as she looked at the Frenchman like the answer was the simplest thing in the world.

"Make sure nothing happens to him, obviously," she replied, "Surely, you don't expect me to send the rookie into the Ravines all by himself, do you?"

The Spy snarled. "So essentially, you're 'aving zhe both of us _babysit _zhe _l'aimant idiot de la mort?"_

"Hey, Suit," growled the Texan, his hands raising up the sleeves of his shirt in preparation for a brawl, "Ah ain't gonna pretend ah know a lick of yer language, but something's tellin' me that what y'all just said about me wasn't nice._ At all."_

The Spy gave a big, callous smile and a smug puff of smoke in the Engineer's direction. "Tres bien, toy-maker, you catch on quickly. Would you like a cookie?"

"Quit it, spook," frowned the Sniper, before giving a small, sarcastic chuckle, "Smilin' a lot ain't good for yer _face, _y'know."

A look of pure, untainted hatred conceived itself in the Spy's silvery irises faster than a rain barrel placed under a waterfall.

"_**Bushman-"**_

"_Stop,"_ snapped Pauling, "All of you. I already have a giant fight to clean up. You two can either help the Engineer with the simple task I've provided you, or help me separate your comrades. Your choice."

The two men looked over at their fellow combatants wailing on each other about twenty feet away. With grimaces, they both walked over to the Engineer and grudgingly accepted their jobs. The Engineer looked over to the Sniper, relieved at least the marksman would be there, who of which didn't seem upset or pleased with the outcome. Then to the Spy, nervous about the Frenchman's knife possibly being in between his shoulder blades in a few hours.

"Zhis 'ad better not take long," growled the Spy.

(-)

"_Ugh,"_ spat the Spy, the dim light of their lantern casting his lean, faint shadow over the rocky interior behind him, "Zhis day 'has been one of zhe most tedious slices of shit I've ever had to endure."

As the Engineer remained crouched next to his eighteenth Teleporter, he noted that a shade of deep, lightless black had begun to creep along the sky, visible through the lantern-lit cracks of the stone alcove roof above his hardhat. Night had begun, signified by the said darkening sky and the desert warmth's dying breaths. Permanent dust clung to the Texan's knees as he opened a panel on the foldable Teleporter containing numerous wires as he put in a small effort to listen to his colleagues. He figured it would be nice to pick up some information about the folks keeping him alive as they remained uncomfortably near each other in the walls of the closet-sized alcove they'd decided on setting the machinery up in. A thin trail of smoke wafted from the Frenchman's stance a few feet away against the stone-ridden bluff, and hazel-green, uncovered irises peered over from the Sniper's crouched position beside a boulder near the mouth of the nook in the wall. The sunlight had long sunken behind the Ravines' borders and had begun to blacken everything, including his teammates. The two of his 'friends' looked eerily at home in the shade, and he was incapable of telling who looked more accustomed to the darkness than the other.

"What was the most tedious?" asked the Engineer.

A cloud of smoke hushed out from the Spy's lips along the once clean air in response. "Zhe day before yesterday," he firmly stated, eyes jadedly scanning the walls. The Engineer had gotten used to the Spy's constant callousness, so he merely shrugged.

"Wasn't that good a day for any of us, ah don't think," he muttered as his wrench tightened the bolts on the device. Assembling Teleporters was so easy, part of him suspected he could've just beat it with a wrench a few times and it'd work, "The only one who looks even a little happy about all this is Smoky. And even then, you probably could just shove a tin of leaves in front of the lil' guy, and he'd... Or she'd freak like a schoolgirl in front of that band they've been playing on the radio... Can't remember the name of it... One of the members was named Paul McCartney, ah think?"

"Oh," frowned the Sniper, "Y'mean the Beatles?"

"Yeah, yeah, those guys," nodded the Texan.

"You actually _listen_ to _zhem?"_ lifelessly asked the Spy, unamused, "I'd assumed you listened to something low of quality, like Bob Dylan. Not... Zhe British girl demographic..."

"Don't diss Dylan," frowned the Texan as he tightened a screw, "And no, ah don't. Ah heard 'em while ah was in... ...In jail... This guy in the cell across from me said they were all the rage with the girls back where he was f-"

"You were in _prison?"_ the Spy asked, puzzled that the seemingly innocent Texan was a former felon.

The Engineer turned to find the Spy and the Sniper both looking over to him, their contrarily coloured eyes trying and failing to mask the surprise flickering in them.

The Engineer gave a somber chuckle. "Yeah... Yeah ah was..." he ruminated, "Wasn't fun, Suit, ah'll tell ya that much."

"What were your charges?" asked the Frenchman, arms crossed as he leaned a bit further back into the wall, not caring if he was scratching open old wounds. And boy, was he scratching them. At the remembrance of prison, the Texan ceased moving for a little bit, feeling a rush of negative emotions threatening to rise from deep inside his subconscious. Suppressed tears and anger threatened to break through his shield of calm, his eyes slowly wandering the red steel of the Teleporter as he deeply wished to discard the inauspicious memories. The answer to the Frenchman's question was lodged firmly under his heavy tongue, and it was thoroughly unwilling to crawl out. His scars felt like they were seeping through his skin and into his organs, but he neglected it and remained unsettlingly quiet, shivering slightly. Thankfully for the Texan, however, the Sniper was good at detecting emotions.

"You don't have to share," he assured, fixing his hat's rim so that it cupped his sunglasses in a more secure manor.

The Texan cradled his arms. "...Thanks," he mumbled, "...What were we talking about before?"

"The Beatles," said the Sniper, very willing to change the subject to something the Engineer was more comfortable with.

"Right. Can we git back to that?"

"Sure," the Sniper nodded.

"Well, how'd you hear about 'em, Stretch?" asked the Engineer.

"My mum has this friend in England named Mary, oi think, and she says they're a hit, or something... Oi give 'em about two years. Maybe three. Once they're over thirty, they'll be forgotten like Yesterday's rain."

"Good riddance," frowned the Engineer, turning back to his work as he remained more than willing to change the subject as well, "Right now, they're decent, but god help 'em once they run outta slightly catchy material."

"Yup. They'll die out, oi'm pretty sure," affirmed the Sniper, "These stupid boy-bands always do."

"Just like everything," chimed the Spy, a diminutive shower of cigarette ash fleeting to the tips of his shoes as he stood, cigarette slowly dying in his slick fingers.

The Sniper raised an eyebrow. "Huh," he mused, "Had a feelin' you were a fatalist, spook. Looks like oi was right on the money."

"Was it so obvious?" asked the Frenchman, a quiet note of sarcasm floating along his words.

The Sniper frowned.

"...Why're you here, Suit?" the marksman cautiously asked, "Oi'm just curious... Oi mean, you've gotta 've known that you'd be placed on a team, that was one of the first things your contract said. And even though oi only met you th' other day, you don't really seem like a team player."

The Spy did not look to either the Sniper or the Texan, and instead up to the darkening sky, a look of thought on his face as his eyes studied the buckets of black bleeding along the once azure field. Inhaling smoke, his fingers lowered the cancer-stick as he seemingly considered saying something. He released the smoke, and turned to the Texan to answer... Then a pebble dropped right into their niche.

The cocking of weapons instantly resounded across the stony recess, much to the Engineer's alarm. The barrel of the Sniper's rifle and the Spy's silver revolver were briskly navigating the faded orange ledges above them within seconds, scanning the narrow cracks above for movement and fingers itching for the triggers.

"Jesus, calm down, would you?! It could've been a lizard, or something!" cried the Engineer, looking over to his paranoid colleagues, full of fear at the possibility that they were paranoid nutcases.

"Or an enemy Spy," growled the Sniper, checking the ammunition on the rifle before hoisting himself to stand. Before the Spy or the Engineer could say anything, the Sniper was already a foot out of the mouth of the small alcove, examining the outside for movement, and thoroughly ready to leave.

"Where do you believe you're going, bushman?" hissed the Spy, left hand still firmly on his revolver.

The Sniper's hazel-green eyes scanned around, somehow seeing through the murkiness without need of the slightest trace of light.

"Rat hunting," he answered with a cock of his namesake, not even looking their way, "Spook, you stay with Engie and make sure neither of you get knives in your shoulders. Knives including yours. If oi come back and Engie's dead, oi'm adding you to the list of vermin that needs killing."

Before the Engineer could protest, the Sniper had already left the alcove, leaving an anxious, moral Texan all by his lonesome with a sophisticated, vindictive Spy. The stuffy air between the two combatants swirled in an apprehensive silence, heavy air subtly pressing itself against their sweat-shrouded skin. Slowly, the Engineer cautiously looked over at the masked man, half-expecting the gun in his face again, only to find the tuxedo-wearing killer fiddling with an expensive looking golden watch instead.

"He has the idiocy to call me vermin," scoffed the assassin as his gloved hands slipped along the reflective rim, "Hypocrisy in its finest of forms."

"So, uh... Whadda we do until he gets back, Suit?" asked the Engineer.

The Spy laughed. "_'We'_?" he asked, "Non, mon ami. You 'ave zhe honor of staying 'ere whilst I stretch my legs at the base."

The Engineer's eyes widened.

"What?!" he cried, furious with the Frenchman, "Now, you just hold on a dang minute! You're gonna flat out leave me, smack-dab in th' middle of a desert, alone in the dark, with an enemy possibly runnin' along out there?! That's borderline treason, Suit! You can't do that!"

The Spy laughed again. "Do you not remember what I said to you at the Station, toy-maker? I do not volunteer for shows," softly jeered the Spy, flicking the cigarette to the ground and spreading its coal-like remains across roughly three inches of sand, "I either watch zhem, leave zhem, or end zhem. I apologise, toy-maker, but yours is the middle option. However, if you somehow do come back, feel free to tell me how zhe rest of zhe evening went, constructeur."

"YOU DOUBLE-CROSSIN' SNAKE!" roared the Engineer, fury's lustful flames of daintily encasing his thumping heart, "Ah've got half a mind to wring you by yer scrawny neck, you snail-eating bastard!"

"I think not," dryly purred the Frenchman, "Well, I now bid you adieu."

That did it. Frenchie was going down, morality be damned. The Engineer charged at the Spy, shouting a battle cry with both his fists and his mind ready to beat the living shit out of the assassin. His boots crunched against the fine sand, stale air whisking past his perspiring face as he prepared to splatter foreign blood across the nook's interior. However, the Spy grinned, shattered the lantern with a kick, and pressed a button on the top of the watch just as the Engineer pounced. The Engineer was in the air for second, face in shock as he witnessed the Spy somehow disappearing into a cloud of smoke, leading the Engineer to crash into the hard ground left behind.

And, with a final note of the Spy's laughter and the diminishing echoes of his footsteps, the Engineer was alone in the pitch-black cave.

Quietly, the Engineer picked himself off the ground, ears soaking in the pure, blanketing silence of his surroundings. There were no voices. No light. Just the near-silent hum of the Teleporter slowly bouncing off the rock walls. Crickets chirped in the distance, and the sand under his boots crunched as he blindly wandered in the darkness. A dose of fear filled him at the near inability to see his own hand in front of his face as he tucked away his sole weapon, his wrench. He panicked, quickening breathing taking over as the main noise in the alcove. He couldn't see, but he knew that he didn't want to stay in there all night. He wanted to get back to the base ASAP. Fumbling along, he found what he presumed was the mouth of the cave, and pushed himself out.

Cautiously, like a mouse crawling out from their hole, the Engineer stepped out into the dark canyon outside, fingers tracing the handle of the wrench in his overall's side pocket as he slowly wandered along the rocks and crunching sand, eyes scanning pitch black, and his goosebump-littered skin picking up on the chilling air.

He was essentially blind.

But he wasn't at all deaf, as proven by a _whisk _noise in the distance.

Instantly drawing the wrench, the Engineer paused as his ears processed the noise. That sounded way too fast to be the Sniper, and too loud for the Spy.

"W-Who's there?" he called out to the darkness. But nothing answered.

He felt his stomach quiver within him as he blindly progressed. He wasn't alone. He held his wrench in a paranoid fashion, anticipating death as he stumbled along, heart racing as he studied the invisible rocks. He twisted along, covered feet sensing lizards scampering along. Suddenly, the whisk noise resounded again. Quietly, he turned his frame slightly to the left...

Then he felt the barrel of a gun poke the back of his head.

**A/N; IT'S DONE. THANK GOD.**

**And yes, Scout was introduced about three chapters earlier than I had intended. I was gonna introduce him later using a different scenario, but then I realized the scenario planned would've potentially spoiled quite a bit of the main plot, and I realized that the longer I withheld throwing him in, the longer it would've just been unfunny filler and forced character interaction, so I decided to throw him in right away to move the story along a little.**

**I made a joke on Jane Doe because of all the gender-bending artwork for TF2. Seriously, people?! I understand people have fetishes, but why in God's name can't I look up Team Fortress 2 on Google Images without seeing at least five pictures of the mercs in skirts?!**

**Anyway, little rant finished and boringness of the story temporarily gone, see you next time, I guess.**


	4. Practicing Medicine

**A/N; DESCRIPTIONS, WHY YOU NO FLOW RIGHT?! XC Guh... I can't focus...**

**...Oh hey, it's you. Well, I'm feeling complacent. You guys, though small in number, continue to be awesome through being funny and/or being heart-warmingly supportive. I wrote this up out of boredom. So have a chapter I guess.**

The night's air was colder than death's icy grip, yet droplets of sweat streaked the Sniper's frame anyway, beads of the stuff streaming down his course skin like he was roasting in the bright, afternoon sun as opposed to scaling a fifty-foot rock wall at a youthful hour of the night.

Sharply inhaling, his fingers latched themselves around one of the thousands of rocks jutting out of the vertical, stone partition he was scaling, and he noiselessly pushed himself upwards, limbs sprawled out like spider legs over the rough exterior and muggy breaths rolling off his tongue. A curtain of ebony shrouded the Australian and the cracks above him in a foreboding manor, casting every fragment of the world in shadow and silencing the sounds of every entity lingering in the desert. Every sound, that is, save for the wordless hymn of the unmoving cicadas hidden somewhere in the gloom, their droning choir hovering on the empty air. Goosebumps tingled on the rough skin of his gangly arms as the cooling air teased to steal his hat off his dark locks - but the marksman knew the winds were far more bite than howl on this night, and paid them no heed. Let 'em gnaw at his bare arms, it had nothing on half the stuff he'd had to survive. With a grunt, his fingers reached the ridge of the wall's flat summit, and he quietly tugged himself upwards, lessening a slight bit of the weight of his upper torso over the rim of orangey rocks, a pant leaving his lips as he allowed himself to rest for a moment. He'd gone approximately forty seven feet up a cliff wall in eleven minutes. That had to be some kind of record. He probably would refrain from saying anything about it, though – that was the professional thing to do. Swallowing the minuscule renewal from his moment of idleness, he pushed the rest of himself upwards. Or at least attempted to. The confused Sniper looked down through the small gap resting between his chest and the cliff face, finding his right, grey sock caught in a sharp rock.

"_Piss,"_ he whispered in anger, trying to tug his leg out, but to no avail. Annoyance filled the Australian's gaze as he glared at his caught ankle, head boiling with frustration at himself and, though admittingly immature of him, the wall. Without thinking, the Australian tugged out his leg in one firm motion – instantly regretting the action as he felt a cool, undoubtedly scarlet trickle flowing down what was unquestionably a cut across his ankle. With a wince, he pulled himself over the cliff and crawled across the cool ground of the open summit, fingers gripping the dry, grainy rocks under his lanky frame until arriving at a cool, smooth boulder poking out of the dusty ground, it's rounded sides bathed in the luminosity of the empty black sky. Quietly, the Sniper slugged his lengthy spine against it and allowed himself two minutes, no more, to inspect the wound. Tenderly, his digits pulled the pant leg up, his moody eyes inspecting the cut as a long frown stretched across his dusty face. The stone had cut a fair bit deeper than he'd expected. He'd have to pester the Medic about it later. Not bothering to do anything major, he fished a spare smiley-faced Band-Aid out from his vest pocket - a crappy present from the medic of his last Unit - and unceremoniously slapped it on. _God reign fire on her bloody soul, _he quietly thought.

Speaking of bloody, he'd had the right idea about starting from where their Spy's trail intersected with their alcove. Tiny, dry puddles of blood, along with fresh footprints disrupted the membrane of dust along the darkened boulders, grains strewn this way and that as they quietly sang an anecdote of a barefooted, small enemy in the immediate area. But a question was conceived in the Sniper's experienced brain at the fact that they were clearly bare footprints. The Australian couldn't think of a single Spy in all his years of service that would do their job barefoot. ...Besides that one guy in Egypt, but that guy had just been weird. ...He digressed. This possible Spy was not only in need of proper footwear, but he/she had been a great hurry to leave, if one bothered to note the lines of dust that looked like they'd been kicked upwards. If anyone, Spy or not, had been close enough to look through the cracks, they would've seen that the people in there were clearly REDs from the Engineer's attire alone. If the one who was here had run away, that meant he/she was either a civilian who had somehow wandered this far into the desert, or a really, really stupid BLU. Well, he could theorize all he damn well pleased, but he had some form of Spy to catch, and the one waiting in the alcove below was probably getting impatient with him. Slowly, he picked up his Machina, and wandered along the open cliff, letting the darkness cloak him from harm as he moved forward.

Part of the Sniper wondered if the Spy had even bothered to listen to him, and if he hadn't inadvertently left the Engineer for dead in that alcove, but the former bushman had to remind himself that the Engineer wasn't his responsibility. Really, the fact he'd been bothering to help him at all was something honestly unknown to him. It could've been a possibility that the Texan reminded him of someone he'd forgotten, or it all was all simply a pathetic cry from the last shreds of human decency left in his battle-hardened entity, but something in the Sniper just didn't really fancy the idea of finding the Engineer's corpse slumped on the ground. Now, if it did happen, he'd get over it like yesterday's rain, but still. It just wasn't that pleasant of an image, and he wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe that fish on the train meant more to him than he'd thought it had, he had no clue. By this point, his mum's old cat probably knew the answer better than he did. Regardless, the Sniper just went with what his logical instincts told him to do, as the marksman wasn't really one for thinking his emotions over too deeply. Not anymore, anyway.

His shoes paused their trek as an odd note suddenly rested in the atmosphere. The Sniper cocked his head to the side as an abrupt, subtle call from reality rang for him, his ears soaking in the unusual sound on the night air and detecting something gravely amiss.

The cicadas had stopped singing.

The Machina was prepped on impulse, its scope scanning around its wielder for the source of the silencing. Someone was stirring, and the Sniper didn't like the idea of a threat he couldn't see. A sharp breath cut past his canines, a new coat of dryness pressing on his tongue. Eyebrows arched as his feet shifted slightly under him, his Machina's barrel circulating around him at the rate of his controlled rasps of air. The clouds rolled by overhead, wavy textures of their wispy hulls casting layers upon layers of shadow to overlap each other, his own shadow consumed in the nothing cast down from the covers of the stratosphere. Cautiously, the marksman took his first step forward – When a sudden, shrill scream followed by a steel _CLANG_ noise echoed from beyond, about a thousand meters away from him position.

Shock panged in his chest as the Sniper moved forwards. He noted that lick of a Texan accent had rested on that scream.

_"That goddamn-"_ he hissed as he ran, whilst at the same time swearing a silent oath to slice the Spy's head in two with his kukri later. The Engineer, inexperienced dunce, had probably attracted at least twenty BLUs from all over the Ravines with that one scream, the stupid newbie. He could feel his sweat falling from his pores, his fists blurring with his shifting arms as his lanky legs carried him. The Sniper was not an honorable man, but he'd be damned to let a comrade he got along with die when there was conceivably something he could've done. Soon, the path along the empty, flat summit abruptly ended, leading to a bumpy, perpendicular fall downwards to a fairly narrow gorge, a good deal of its floor reduced to being a figurative pool of fine, near white sand, with the same labyrinth-y walls the Ravines were filled with. And resting this gorge was none other than the Engineer in all his stocky, inexperienced glory, the Texan's frame shivering next to a wall as he blindly looked around dark with... The Sniper was ready to facepalm. The Texan, the poor, stupid lug, was wearing his goggles. In the dark. ...For a man who could understand pretty much any science textbook tossed at him, he could be... Oblivious about his surroundings. This flaw would have to be fixed with posthaste if he was to avoid death, but for the time being, all that the Sniper could do was simply watch his colleague's senselessness and be guiltily amused. Fortunately for him and his colleague, no BLUs were in eyesight or hearing range at the moment, and instead... The Sniper paused his mild amusement and allowed a note of curiosity to play. A kid was there, too. A near emancipated one, somewhere in his early teens and lying back-down in the sand, brown hair and thin, black prison clothes peppered in sand as twin streams of blood drizzled from his forehead and his shoulder. A wrench lay near the his feet, a splotch of crimson on the metal, a splotch matching up with the one on the kid's forehead in terms of likeness. What a poor b...

The Sniper's eyebrow rose as he noted the bastard's hands, curiosity coming out from the odd, untraceable dwelling in his brain where all his moronic emotions circulated. The curiosity decided to flower not from the sight of the cheap pistol entangled in the stranger's fingers, but instead from the strange, dark, shapeless tattoos snaking around his hands and wrists. Odd things, they were. They were sharp-edged, disjointed, near-black vines that resembled the circuitry you'd find within a computer system - just blips of senseless patterns and articulate convolutions. Highly unusual. Regardless, seeing all of the scene from his perch, it didn't take long for the Sniper's brain to connect the trail of dots. He looked down to his Texan colleague and saw the terror and trepidation on his comrade's blinded face, his shielded eyes desperately searching for a threat inside the nothing to attack him. With sigh through his nostrils, the kinder, more reserved side of the Sniper decided to come out of the bowels it had been buried in, and ease the mood of his squeamish colleague.

"'Ey, Engie," he called.

On the first note of his voice piercing the air, the Texan's eyes darted upwards, a look of disbelief on his face as he peered around the blanket of murkiness slathered in front of his eyes.

"...Stretch?" he called, "That you?"

"Who th' hell else could it be?" asked the Sniper as he practically began sliding down the crag's face, hands and feet expertly finding little nooks so he could briskly lower himself.

"Oh, thank god..." he sighed, voice awash with relief, "...Where are ya right now? Ah can't see ya, 'cause th' dark... S'like a blanket..."

"Take off yer goggles then, ya bleedin' idiot," mocked the Sniper as he hopped off the ledge and strode over to the dumbfounded Engineer, lips twitching upwards at the Texan's dumbfounded expression as he stopped in front of his colleague. There was a thick silence between the two men for a minute, before a quiet facepalm diverged from the Texan's stance, followed by a groan of his humiliation.

"...I'm a friggin' idiot," grimaced the Engineer as he slipped off the goggles, eyes blinking as they found themselves capable of seeing somewhat better amidst the darkness. The Sniper casually took a note that the Texan's eyes were sea-green, a fairly unusual eye colour.

"And a crack shot with yer wrench, apparently," he commented as he peered over to the bleeding boy about three meters away from them, "You got a homing-device built into that thing?"

While the Sniper remained rather calm with the situation, the Engineer's eyes widened as he stared at the unconscious kid, utter shame dripping in his gaze.

"Oh, Jesus-" he uttered as he ran over to the bleeding youth, crouching next to him in anxiety while checking to see if he was alive. The Sniper watched the Texan for a minute, mildly surprised that the stockier man cared so much about the kid bleeding out. But, the fact the Engineer was a newbie, and had no clue about the very, very _loose_ requirements one needed to be a combatant in these wars was recalled upon noting his gaze. Nervousness rested in the Texan's eyes, the circles continually shifting between the Sniper in his akubra-sporting glory, and the weak boy in the Texan's arms, a stupid amount of determination filling his inspection of his unintentional victim. The man was such a newbie, it was almost hilarious. But a note of sorrow fell on this scene at the knowledge of the Engineer's innocence. The Texan hadn't killed before. His panic was simply to be expected. "Shit, uh..."

"Well?" asked the Sniper, wondering what advice he'd offer to help console the Engineer's first murder, as the silence between the two of them was thicker than the sand underfoot. That was, until the marksman's keen ears traced a relieved exhale resounding from the Engineer's position. The Texan turned his head towards him, uncertainty filling the shorter man's gaze, but slight calmness filling his face all the same.

"...He's breathin'!" he happily reported, unaware of the Sniper's indifferent standpoint on the situation, "Well, ain't no medical expert, but ah guess we stop th' bleeding first? ...But... That's a LOT 'a pus on his shoulder... Do we fix that, or...?"

The Sniper knew the Texan would hate him for appearing selfish, but it was hate from the newbie or the death of both of them.

"We... We can't help him, Engie. We have to go. Rioght now."

The Engineer faced confusion for a minute as he processed the Sniper's words. But as the cogs in his head turned, the reaction slowly became as expected. Anger. Suspicion. Disgust.

_"...Why_ th' hell not?" he demanded, repulsion filling his tone as his brain connected the pieces from behind the cover of his unsullied, ocean-shaded irises.

"Engie. You're a loud screamer. Oi heard you loud and clear from way over there. That one scream probably attracted at LEAST twenty people to this one little patch. Twenty people we mioght have to fioght if we stick around," the Sniper explained as he took the Machina in his hands and cocked it, "Us or the kid. Take yer pick, overalls."

The Engineer considered the words, a small frown on his face as he hesitantly thought it over. "Well... We gotta bring him back with us. Kid's gonna die out here," he settled, hoisting himself up with the boy cradled in his arms, "Doc'll patch him up good."

The Sniper gave a slight grimace as he held his gun. The righteousness of a newbie could be a dangerous thing. "Hold it for a second, Engie. Lookit what the kid's wearing. That's a prison uniform," he said, "The tyope 'a prison uniform you wear in these Wars if you get caught by an opposing team, and get jailed in THEIR Stronghold for a whoile. Usually before execution by an opposing team."

"Yeah? _And?"_ asked the Texan, firm hands making sure not to damage the boy. The Sniper quietly noticed this odd protectiveness. Tex was a bit of a mother goose, wasn't he?

"There aion't a difference between the prison Uniforms for both teams," replied the Sniper, "So... How do we know this kid ain't with BLU?"

The Engineer looked at the marksman in horror. "...You suggestin' we _KILL_ him?_"_ he asked incredulously.

"If it'll keep _us_ from bein' killed? Yes," growled the Sniper, _"T__hink_ this over a tick, Engie. He pointed a gun to your head, AND north-a-way's beyond that stretch of desert is OUR Stronghold. Doesn't that seem a mite suspicious to you? He could be RED, but if that were the case, why wouldn't 'e had said so to ya?"

"It's dark, Stretch. He was gonna say something before ah tossed th' wrench at him," growled the Texan, clearly to his best to bite back fury as he defensively held the kid.

...Touche. But still, this was a great deal too suspicious for the marksman to just abide. "Engie... The fact he's a kid means pure BOLLOCKS when he was probably intendin' to blow your brains out all over the walls. You mioght've _died_ if you hadn't reacted lioke you did," said the Sniper, "Listen, alrioght? Oi know; Oi'm a heartless monster. Oi get it. It's really, bloody hard to do whot oi'm suggestin' we do. But oi'm trying to keep us alive rioght now. And the chances 'a me succeeding are ticking away th' longer we talk."

The Engineer looked over to the Sniper's concerned eyes, than down to the boy's sunken cheeks with a look of incredulity. Within five seconds, his grip tightened somewhat and his face gained a strange mix of the emotions of both doubt and consideration. But then, the Engineer hefted the kid up a little higher, grimacing as he discarded the Sniper's words. "No one's dyin' on mah watch, Stretch," he stated, tenacity lurking in his calm, to which the Sniper mentally snorted at. He didn't mean to sound like such an ass, he truly didn't, but the Sniper really didn't feel like dying over some kid who probably would've killed one of his colleagues if they hadn't reacted like he had.

"Engie, lookit this scene. Oi have a gun, the kid's dyin' – possibly 'll die on the way to th' base – and that's blood on your wrench there. We're in a warzone, Engie," stabbed the Sniper's words, "People tend to die in warzones, no matter who's watch they're under. You can't save every poor sap you stumble upon, kid or no kid."

The Texan hefted the boy higher. "...Maybe not," he admitted, "...But ah can at least _try."_

Before the Sniper could say another word, the Engineer was already breaking into a run, boots seemingly weightless as they plowed through the soft sand. The Texan was deadset on doing what he felt was right, leaving the Australian in the dust as he did so. The Sniper in the meantime, remained a few paces behind, his signature rifle on standby as he watched his associate leaving. Slight annoyance flickered in his uncovered irises, and a sudden craving for a cigarette whispered from some little nook in his brain. After the toss of five seconds, a _tsk_ noise finally left his lungs as he followed his inexperienced, stupid teammate. The marksman reminded himself as he ran behind his moral-driven colleague – and resisted the urge to smack the sentimentalism out of him – that the Engineer was a newbie. And newbies at any game had a tendency to do really stupid things. The slightly younger man would learn someday, but that clearly wasn't today. Until that day, the marksman would just offer up advice and hope with half his heart the Texan didn't fall as horribly as many others like him had.

(-)

The soft interior of the Engineer's lungs burned against the cool air circulating through them, each inhale of oxygen sending a figurative wave of fire across the tissue with every step slamming against the smooth floor. But Texan had no time to complain about the pain. He had to get to the infirmary. His technology-infused heart pumped blood a fair bit faster than it had in recent memory, heavy gasps rolling out his mouth as he keenly pressed on, toned arms carrying the troublingly light boy in his arms. The tiles of the floor with their dull, reflective glints had long blurred against the tips of his toes, his eyes choosing to focus on the long halls leading to where the Medic would be ready to help him with his problem. He didn't bat an eye to Miss Pauling's staggered face as she stepped out of her room, nor did he process the drunken laughter of the Soldier and Demoman as they slumped against the walls with their noses stuffed with scarlet-dyed Kleenex, or the Spy's shocked expression as he watched the odd trio moving at their fast pace. He had to save the kid in his arms. He had to do something. The Sniper's footsteps echoed behind him, but whether the marksman was trailing behind him out of concern or curiosity was unknown to the Texan. He didn't care. Frankly, the Engineer was a little more than angry with the Australian at the moment. A good chunk of him knew that the Sniper only had the best intentions at heart, but the Engineer just couldn't take the suggestion of leaving a kid to die without the slightest hint of abhorrence. But his lecture for the marksman would have to wait, as the door to the Infirmary rested a twenty shortening feet in front of him. With a kick, the steel doors blasted open and in ran the Texan, determination magnifying itself with every bead of sweat and urgency in every fiber of his being. But the Medic wasn't there.

Silence filled the Infirmary.

"Th' hell?" murmured the Sniper, eyebrows scrunched, "Is 'e even in here?"

The Engineer peered around the place, his head darting around in a fruitless attempt of trying to find their healer. The Infirmary remained near the same as it had been when he had entered yesterday, the old brick still lined with the lopsided shelves, still maintaining their overwhelming sense of decay and horror, as if they were sponsoring some demonic slasher flick. Hell, the operating table in the center of the room had the same restraints from his first trip into the room for some reason. (Most probably for the Soldier when it had been his turn for the Uber thing) But in their current field of vision, the Medic was absent. No, instead of their doctor, the German's doves flocked to them, the now dimmed lights highlighting their snowy feathers as they interestedly observed their caretaker's unexpected guests with their beady, yet deep eyes. A grimace covered the Engineer's face as he gingerly wandered away from their unsettling cloud of white, flittering wings and gently set the kid's light frame on the table in the center of the room, not bothering to shoo the birds away as they gathered around the injured lad, crooning their little necks to observe his limp body with curiosity.

"Dunno," he frowned, uncertain about the birds' morbid natures, "Help me look."

The Sniper nodded and headed to the left half of the room, casually observing the doctor's unusual accommodations to the space as he briskly searched for him. The Engineer chose to wander the other half of the room in the meantime, poking his nose around the back of the Medic's desk. On his way there, his eyes inquisitively wandered the rough walls of the room – but ceased upon spotting a strange book lying on the corner of the maple. His left eyebrow rose as he examined it from a distance, suspicion filling him as he cautiously began to approach it. It was old, its leather cover filled up with tears, and yellowy papers barely retained by the old rings holding them together. For some bizarre reason, it stunk of the ocean, the smell of sea-salt seeping into his nostrils and whirling untraceable, rippling waves of nostalgia through his mind. With every step placed forward, bits of a fragmented memory began to flock into his consciousness, tiny slivers of some memory about a trip to the sea from a long time ago. It was a clouded recollection, simply consisting of ocean waves lapping at the hull of a boat, and cool water submerging his entity. But the details to the memory were floating off in another sea entirely - a masterful ocean he couldn't seem to breech the surface of. He wasn't sure who'd been there with him, where he'd been staying, or even what age he'd been. Four? Nineteen? ...It didn't matter. Regardless, from his distant position, he could see there was no title, name, or author credit written across the leather, having it remain completely vague - a faceless tome with some odd story or another resting within its aged covers. A tome completely unconnected to his humble life from Bee Cave. ...Yet, something was quietly whispering at him to open it. A hushed, cold, yet demanding echo at the back of his mind, urging his fingertips to lift the covers and submerge his ethical mind with whatever knowledge was lurking within the antediluvian pages. Slowly, he stepped towards the mysterious tome – And tripped over the Medic's sleeping form on the floor, belly-flopping to the ground.

"Doc!" he cried, gaping at the slumbering German as the said man lay soundly on his left shoulder, squirming a tad as he wandered his subconscious dreamscape. His arm was tucked under his head, pillowing his black locks from the dust he lay coiled on while his other hand was draped over his lower chest, and his knees were loosely drawn to his chin. He looked peaceful. Still, this was not the time for the doctor to rest. The Texan quickly moved next to the man and began shaking him by the shoulder.

"Doc, doc!" he called, trying to wake the older man, "C'mon, wake up, we kinda need ya...!"

With every tug of the beige cloth, the Medic's consciousness flickered a tad, each tug causing it to spark more than the last. Slowly, the German's eyelids began to slip open with a soft moan, his unfocused pupils adjusting to the dim light of their surroundings as he was drawn out of the mental world he'd been submerged in.

"Was...?" he sleepily whispered, unassisted eyes looking around their bleary field of vision before focusing on the stocky silhouette above him, squinting upon doing so, "...? ...Vhat are you doing on zhe floor...?"

"Why are you sleepin' on it ta begin with?" asked the Sniper as he stood above both of them, his faint, lanky shadow lightly shrouding them from the reduced lights, "Can't be good for your back, sawbones."

The German mumbled something in his native language as a response, his cold hand taking a reflective pair of glasses out of one of the pockets of his vest and guiding them along the bridge of his nose.

"Ain't important," said the Engineer as he briskly took the Medic's arm and hauled the doctor to stand, "We kinda need you right now."

"Hmm?" asked the Medic as he clumsily let himself be led by the shorter man along the Infirmary's floor, "Vhat is...?"

"Help him," directed the Engineer as pointed to the scraggily lad sprawled out on the steel table, doves dog-piled on his scrawny frame and cooing happily at the sight of their caretaker.

"W-Jesus," mumbled the Medic, "V...Vhere vas zhis kinder-_ Kind. ...Mein Gott, ich kann nicht sprechen..."_

"Desert," impatiently explained the Engineer, "Patch 'im up, would you?"

"_Vait a moment,_ vould you?" grumbled the Medic, eyes shut as he rubbed the crease between his eyebrows, "Herr Conagher, I'm vaking from a valium-induced sleep. Give me a second to-"

The Engineer's eyes widened.

"How the hell do you know mah last name?!"

The Medic popped open his eyes, quietly staring the alarmed Engineer and the intrigued Sniper like a child caught sticking their hand in the cookie jar, tied tongue creating an awkward silence. The Engineer's eyes were inquisitively burning through the doctor, demanding an explanation, while the Sniper's were curious, arms folded over his chest with an eyebrow raised. The Medic quietly fiddled with his fingers as he contemplated the information he'd gathered, guilt and consideration shining past the gleam of his lenses.

"...Vell... ...Uh..."

A loud whimper suddenly sliced through the stale air between the operating table and the men's tense stares like a serrated blade, followed by thrashing. The variously coloured eyes of the mercenaries zeroed in on the kid, watching as the youth's muscles spasmed in his subconscious flailing, frightened gasps traipsing out his lips as he flipped about pathetically on the table, like a live fish tossed on land, flopping about without knowledge of where it was, or why it's fins had ceased working. While the Engineer was shocked and was full of pity for the poor boy, the Sniper merely gave a low, impressed whistle.

"Kid don't look too happy," he observed, raising the rim of his a akubra a little.

"Scheiße, ve don't have time or zhis," scowled the Medic, a frigid hand taking a syringe out of his pocket and tossing it to the Engineer, who caught it gently, "Morphine. Quick, shoot the boy with it and do up zhe restraints," he said as he briskly ran towards his desk to gather things, "My second is up."

The Engineer wanted to argue, but there were more urgent matters at hand than the Medic's disturbing knowledge of his last name. Grudgingly, he dutifully placed his boots forward and went over to the boy squirming in his unconscious state on the table, and observed the youth's fearful, unconscious features in pity. Someone that young, having to go through the desert in all its waves of harsh sunlight like that, and endure a bullet. His gaze turned to the clear liquid swishing around in the syringe in his palm, knowing full well what he had to do, and not enjoying the thought at all.

"Kay kid, we're gonna fix you up," he quietly assured as he guided the needle to the boy's bicep, "Relax, you'll be A-O-"

The boy's eyes shot open.

The Texan simply blinked, and his hand was instantly in a grip, the boy staring him down with weak, fear-coated, icy irises. The two store the other down, the Texan's sea-shaded irises staring into the ice shrouding the boy's, dry gasps spewing from the youth's shuddering chest as he frightfully looked him down.

"_N-No..."_ he croaked, _"No, d-don't...!"_

The boy was adamant, but his grip on the Engineer's wrist was loose, and was slowly weakening with the brief seconds ticking by. Pity bound the Engineer as his heart gently beat in his ears, but he knew what the right thing was to do. Before it was willed, he could feel his other palm gently drawing the boy's weak hand down to the metal, and with a fluid gesture was gently pushing him downwards into the cold, blood-stained steel, the youth too weak to stop him.

"Sorry, but ah have to," he explained, tone soft as he prepped the needle again.

"N...No! P-P-Please...!" begged the boy. The Engineer winced at how scratchy the kid's voice sounded, but he knew better than to abide to the kid's unwitting death wish. As smoothly as he could, the Texan poked the syringe in the youth's sunburnt skin, emptying the tranquilizing contents into the boy's bloodstream. Dread still lingered in his patient's eyes as he fruitlessly squirmed against the soothing effects of the drug. The Engineer quietly drew the needle out as his ears registered a small moan leaving his patient's lips. He looked down at the boy on the table, and saw the panic receding, valour draining from the boy's irises as he began involuntarily slipping into a slumber. The Engineer wasn't sure if he'd just done a good thing or a bad thing in injecting the morphine, but hopefully, he'd been right to do it.

The Sniper watched the effects kick in from the side for about ten seconds, before gently beginning to lock the unwillingly slumbering boy's limbs into the cold restraints, muttering something in his typically raspy tone that slithered out of reach of the Engineer's eardrums. While doing his task, the marksman seemed to notice the uncertainty in his colleague's uncovered eyes, and frowned.

"He's just scared is all," comforted the marksman, hands nonchalantly clasping the steel around the youth's bicep, "If doc doesn't fuck up, oi think he'll owe lotta good thanks to ya when this is over."

"What if doc _does_ fuck up?" he asked, not making a marginal attempt to hide his concern.

The Sniper shrugged. "His ghost'll hate him, not you. You're set."

It was a weak attempt, and he was still a little angry at the Aussie, but there was a small smidge of warmth to the words.

"...Thanks," he mumbled.

The Medic hopped over to the two varyingly opinionated assassins with a big, steel briefcase and a rolling, metal table, both of which he put next to the Operating table with an unceremonious air. The German's hands were polished with hand sanitizer and his dark eyes, though groggy, remained fairly focused as he assessed the damage on the youth and shooed his doves away.

...But then, he peculiarly turned his head back to the seemingly empty air wafting behind him with a look of mild annoyance.

"_Herr Spy._ If you're going to waver, you could try _actually_ doing somesing useful," he dryly snarled, "Taking up space - big fucking surprise - doesn't help us. Marginally."

These words sat on the empty air for a few dense seconds before a hesitant, familiar cloud of smoke wisped along the cold air behind them and unveiled the slippery Frenchman, crimson garb unspoiled as he stood before the three. A twinge of rage rippled against the Texan's calm as he saw the man's crimson tuxedo without the slightest tear or stain, but his instinctive urge to pummel the treacherous bastard was held back as he saw the assassin's silver irises, noting something was amiss with the cold circles. The Spy's eyes had remained as a practical staple to his character, the way they'd practically casted a freezing aura to his vindictive dirge of a soul was a big piece to his character. But now his eyes, his frigid gaze, held something the Texan had never seen. He couldn't place his finger on which one it was, but he could've sworn he'd seen an honest to god emotion. Of course, the Spy being the Spy, the twinge of humanization was instantly masked, but the Texan knew what he'd seen.

"...What am I to do, zhen?" asked the Frenchman, crossing the crisp cloth of his tuxedo's sleeves over each other.

The Medic shrugged as he flipped the lid of the metallic briefcase skywards and began rummaging through, "You could exit through zhe door und leave us be, stab your knife in zhe Kind's throat to save me from doing any vork, or connect zhis..." he grunted as he somehow dug an entire, portable Electrocardiography device from out of the briefcase and tossed the end of a long cable at to the Frenchman, "...To zhe monitor over zhere on zhe vall, vhilst I apply electrodes to zhe boy. Anyvone of zhose vork for me."

Tentatively, the Spy's gloved hands bore the cord in their slick fingertips, and he moved his dress shoes over the fairly large, sophisticated monitor hanging against the rotting, brick wall nearest to the operating table. Without a moment's hesitation, he stuck the cord in. A spark of life came to the slightly dusty screen as it displayed a deep, black background with only a tiny pink heart in the top left corner, and a white, virtual frame of an empty graph containing a flat, lifeless line streaking across the middle.

"G...Gut," said the Medic, mind not fully switched 'on' as he took out a massive pair of bloody sheers in one hand, and a fistful of electrodes in the other, "Now..."

The Engineer quickly cut in. "Doc, uh... A-Ain't no medical expert, but don't you use... Y'know, smaller scissors to remove patients' clothing?" he sheepishly asked, pointing to the giant slaughter tools in the Medic's right hand. The Medic turned to the sheers' hilt in his palm with a frown, mulling over the Texan's comment.

"...Oh, ja! ...Ha, stupid valium!" he laughed as he put them away and took out a smaller pair of relatively clean scissors, "Right. So... I'm somevhat out of it right now. Bare vith me, bitte?"

"Gee, that's assuring, doc," sarcastically mused the Sniper, "Got any other sedatives you lioke popping for no reason? Just so we have a mental list?"

"Plenty. Und shut up," scowled the Medic as he snipped through the middle of the raggedy, dirty shirt, "I vas having a beautiful dream until you Scheißer showed up vith your dying child."

_"Dying?"_ repeated the Spy in bewilderment, eyebrows creasing slightly.

The Medic didn't seem as concerned as the Frenchman. "Meh, probably, if his blood-stained ribcage is any tipoff. Regardless, I'll do vhat I can. Zhere may still be hope for him," offered the German as he peeled the thin, black fabric off the boy, unveiling his disturbingly visible ribs and the bulging pile of bloody pus streaming from the bullet wound wedged his shoulder, "...Fick, zhat's a big infection..."

A look of doubt crawled across the Sniper's face. _"P__retty big 'fuck up,' chance..."_ he whispered under his breath.

Wasting no time, the Medic quickly stuck the electrodes onto points of the boy chest and limbs with haste. Within seconds, the traditional, green flat line suddenly transformed into a small ascending and declining hill of vertical lines, broken by stillness every few seconds and singing a quiet chant of gentle beeps along the air. Everyone's ears gingerly downed the wordless report of a soft bout of life nestled deep within the patient's chest, quietly beating away inside it's slumbering owner and its will to progress flickering defiantly in its little nook. A slight flutter of satisfaction passing through the Medic as he observed that the monitor was functioning properly, he took a bottle of disinfectant and poured it on a soft cloth, briefly turning his head to the mercenaries in the room whilst he did so.

"Obviously, he's quite dehydrated... Herr Spy," he said to the uncannily focused assassin, who of which looked over expectantly.

"Oui?" he asked.

"Zhere should be a bag of saline in zhe closet next to the mini-fridge, I trust you know vhat zhat is?" the Spy responded with a slow, knowing nod, "Good. Fetch it, bitte. Und zhe mobile rack for it is around zhe coffin in zhe far corner. Can I trust you to get zhat, Herr Sniper?"

The red sleeves of the Sniper's T-shirt ascended into a shrug for a response, and with the swift gesture, the marksman was running in a jiffy over to the other side of the room. Satisfied his orders had fallen on sound ears, the Medic carefully began to pad the damp cloth on the kid's forehead to mop up the blood peppered across the skin.

"Can't ya just use th' Medi-gun to patch 'im up? We'd be done a lot faster!" asked the Engineer unsure of the Medic's manual doctoring abilities, before gaining an idea, "...Hell! Why don't ah build a dispenser?! Ah could-"

"'_Patch him up,'_ by using a device that functions very similarly to zhe Medi-gun, so much so zhat it could make him go into cardiac arrest, UND seal zhe pus into his bloodstream?" he asked with a laugh as he sponged up the crimson showered all over the boy's clammy, ashen forehead, "Tell me, vhat could _possibly_ go wrong?"

"...That's a good point," frowned the Engineer, folding his arms, "Ah guess, it's just... He ain't lookin' so hot, y'know...?"

"Actually, quite zhe contrary," mused the Medic as he prodded the forehead, "...In fact, I do believe zhe Junge has a fever!"

"What?! Fer God's sake!" growled the Engineer, "What isn't killing this kid?!"

"Hmm... My ink pot?" suggested the Medic whilst his skillful fingers gently bandaged a fresh, pallid rag around the wound on the kid's forehead.

"Hilarious," grimaced the Engineer as he stuck his hands in his overall's pockets, "Y'know, since ah figured yer _ink pot_ would be as barkin' mad as you-" the Engineer caught the smidgeon of cruelty on his own words before the Medic did, "...Oh. No offence doc..."

"Und?"

"...'Und,' what?" asked the Engineer nervously, while doing a horrid impersonation of the Medic's accent.

"Vell, vhat did you mean by vhat?" asked the Medic, the Engineer unable to determine what emotion was on his voice – if there was any at all.

"...Well..."

The Engineer squeezed his fists, praying to god that he wouldn't be struck down by some knife hidden in the Medic's pockets, _"...Well,_ y'all can go from soundin' like a real hoss to soundin' like a complete, bonafide nutter in th' time 'a two dang seconds. That's... That's what... ... ...Ah'm sorry."

Bizarrely, the Medic didn't seem that knife-happy. In fact, he actually chuckled a little at the Texan's words. "Hey now, don't go singling me out," smiled, brushing his curl back along his forehead, "Ve're all mad here, Herr Conagher."

The Spy's cotton gloves slipped between them before the Texan could respond, a clear, plastic bag full of dilated water and a coiled I.V in the assassin's fingertips.

"I believe zhis is zhe saline?" offered the Frenchman, typical serious expression an immense contrast to the Medic's Cheshire-cat grin.

"Danke!" smiled the doctor as he put down the bloody cloth and took the bag from his colleague, "See vhat happens vhen you're actually _helpful,_ Herr Spy?"

The Frenchman rolled his eyes, unknowingly at the exact pace of the rotating wheels of the iron rack for the saline rolling over to them, the slender iron slowing to a stop about three feet away from their gathering around the table. Slowly, their gazes turned to the Sniper on the other side of the room, his lanky leg lowering from an apparent kick to the wheeled rack. A dirty, fingerless glove simply adjusted his hat.

"Sorry, it was stuck on a coat!" he called.

The Medic's eyes, in the meantime, flickered in anger as his left hand firmly gripped the slender metal. "Zhat's because zhis is my _coat rack,_ you fucking idiot! Vhere's zhe ozzer vone?!"

"It-" the Sniper stopped his response, mouth shut as his covered eyes quietly allowed drops of alarm to spread along their shielded, green gaze. Wedged under his drying tongue rested the smartass response he longed to spout, but it just refused to roll out for some reason. So, instead, he hesitantly substituted it by pointing a calloused finger to the black monitor behind them, directing the gazes of the three mercenaries to the flat line darting along the screen.

Everyone's heart stopped for a moment.

"...Herr Sniper. Zhe defibrillators, bitte," the Medic requested, voice eerily calm.

The Sniper's shoes instantly propelled themselves off the floor as they carried onwards to do what had been instructed. The Medic, in the meantime, wasting no time in applying CPR to the boy's chest, teeth clenched as his voice yelled at the Spy to setup the saline and the I.V for the technically dead boy, to which the tuxedo-wearing gentleman quickly followed. Within the time it took to blink, the Spy's slick gloves were speedily moving to work in an environment unfamiliar to them, silver eyes glinting in determination as he fiddled with the hook to suspend the thick, transparent water over their youthful patient, while the Engineer stood in shock, brain numb.

"Oh god..." murmured the Engineer, unable to move in the chaos besieging the room, "He's..."

"_Not necessarily,"_ assured the Medic as he hastily preformed the manual CPR while the Spy ungracefully began uncoiling the tube connected to the bag, "Zhere's still... _Ugh,_ Herr Sniper, sometime today, bitte!"

"OI'M TRYING!" yelled the Australian, straining his spidery fingers as they tugged on the handle of the silver defibrillator kit, the case containing the keys to reviving their patient alive thoroughly stuffed under a mountain of books in a large, wooden cupboard near the coffin. Ears only focusing on the drenching, endless beep of the horizontal line, the Spy's own fingers finally succeeded in getting the tube ready, and with godspeed ungracefully speared the needle into the boy's bicep, sending a flow of water into the child's system. The small task done, he raised himself from the I.V and store at his colleague for a moment, slight anger pulsating from his irises.

_"Oh, vous inutile..._ I will assist," he growled as he ran over to the Australian, helping the marksman tug out the case from the mountains of variously-sized books crammed atop it.

"Engineer, zhere should be a large syringe in zhe briefcase. Zhe plastic of it has an orange tint," grunted the Medic, sweat rolling down his skin as his hands struggled to get the tempo of boy's heart going, "Can you get it for me?"

"HOW ARE YOU SO CALM?!" yelled the Engineer as he rummaged through the briefcase, hands ripping through the peculiar items housed in the case. The Engineer, under his panic, noted a pinch of curiosity grapping his alarm as saw the exotic collection of random items piled in the steel case. Needles, bottles, knives, herbs... There was even a cookbook for some odd reason. He quietly swore to himself to ask the doctor about his pastimes later, but it would have to wait, like everything else, as his fingers laced around the plastic of a rather big, orange hypodermic needle buried in a small pile of medium-sized ones.

"F-Found it!" he cried as he tugged it out with a small stumble backwards.

_"Good!_ Now shoot his heart vith it! Quickly!" the doctor ordered past his grunts, his compressed palms thumping against their patient's sternum. The Engineer felt a twinge of apprehension flutter around the Uber compressed on his own heart at these words.

"...His _heart?"_ he asked, dumbly.

"Yes!" cried the Medic, "It's pure adrenaline, a shot it vill help us get his heart running! Shoot him vith it, now!"

The Engineer's own heart almost stopped at that thought. Morphine in the arm was one thing, but this...

It didn't matter. His sweaty palm wavered over the point of the chest where the boy's still heart lay, the slowly warming key of keeping their patient amongst the living resting in his broad fingers. Fighting back his phobia, he squeezed his eyes shut, and with a quiver, swiftly plunged the syringe in the boy's chest, resisting the instinctive urge to empty his stomach as he drained the contents of the syringe into the boy's motionless blood-pumping muscle.

_"Zhere_ you go!" condescendingly sung the Medic, "Now, vas zhat so hard?" smiled the Medic, still having his hands keeping the rhythm.

"_Yes..." _whispered the Engineer, hands shaking as the echoes of a mighty mountain of books descending spectacularly to the ground rang along the air, followed by accent-laced groans.

"Urgh... GOT TH' DEFIBRILLATOR-KIT THING! ...FINALLY!" rang the Sniper's all-knowledgeable words from the other side of the room.

"Wunderbar, bring it here!" called the Medic, before slowly turning his eyes to meet the Engineer's, "Care to finish?"

"...Huh?"

"You're still holding zhe syringe in zhere," said the Medic, gesturing to the needle suspended by the Engineer's grasp, it's needle resting in the boy's chest like a sword wedged in a corpse, "I zhink it's empty, Herr."

_"Uuughhh,"_ grimaced the Engineer as he tugged out the warm needle out of the bare chest, wincing as he did so, "Why'd ah have to be th' only one who gave a crap about keeping him alive...?"

The Medic shrugged. "No idea," he murmured, "Quite illogical of you, really."

Suddenly, out of the blue, the defibrillator kit fell next to the doctor and the mechanic, the importance of it's appearance only requiring a choir of angels to sing for it. Immediately, without so much as thanking the Sniper or the Spy, the Medic ceased the CPR and grabbed the kit and pulled out the twin, metallic defibrillators, fiddling with them to get a charge going.

"Spy, keep zhe CPR going, bitte."

"OUI!" hissed the suited assassin, compressing his sweat-stained gloves and thumping his palms against the clammy skin to try and revive the heart's rhythm. The Medic, in the meantime, softly exhaled as the high frequency of the defibrillators chimed their readiness in the doctor's skilled hands, the twin saviours both prepared to do their jobs. Quickly, the Spy went back slightly as the Medic's shadow loomed over his dying patient, the tools needed to save him resting in his fingers.

"'Right..." muttered the Engineer as he watched the reading on the defibrillator's engine, beads of sweat rolling down his skin as he watched the needle precipitously reach the 300 volts mark, "...CLEAR!"

The Medic instantaneously slammed the charged defibrillators on the ashen skin, the life-sparkers sending powerful surges of imperceptible, electrical tides through the boy's system, every pair of eyes in the room glinting with varying degrees of hope in sparking life.

No response.

The needle rested at 300 volts again. "CLEAR!" the Texan repeated. The Medic obeyed, sending another surge through the skin with a swift plunge of the devices – this time followed by an unconscious gasp from their patient and the heart monitor heralding a small, but ever reaching beep.

Everyone sighed in relief as the monitor began to regulate.

"We... Is it over?" asked the Sniper, cautiously taking out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

The Medic gave a nod, glasses shining from the lights. "Ja. He seems stable now."

The Engineer sighed once more.

_"Never again,"_ muttered the Texan, sweat-drenched hand taking off his hardhat and holding it to his broad chest with an exhausted sigh, "Never."

"...Vell..." smiled the Medic as he put the defibrillators away, "...Zhat vas a fun vay to spend zhe evening!"

**A/N; Huzzah. The chapter's done. :L Again, like last chapter, I'm not sure if the descriptions flow right this time around, but hey, I'm a bit sleep-deprived and working pretty hard on science and whatnot, so... I guess it'll have to do for now. I'll probably keep fixing it up as I go along.**

**If I got things in the medical procedure wrong, and you know how I can fix it, please tell me in a PM, or whatever.**

** See ya around, I guess.**


	5. Cold Lodging

**A/N; Ok... I'm SO sorry about the last chapter! : C I was reading it over recently, and I realized, all the time I spent on it aside, it was rushed and the grammar was BAD, BAD, BAD! Anyway, I've fixed it up somewhat so it's now remotely readable, and... Yeah. All I can do is apologize and continue writing.**

**Personal status; Had some pretty bad writer's block for a while. And I went camping a couple times throughout the month, each time of varying length, which left me with barely any opportunities for writing and stuff. I also fell off a buncha rocks, hurt my head, broke a leg, fractured my other ankle, broke my right wrist, and got a nasty gash on my belly that went in **_**deep **_**– punctured my stomach, (It was a tiny hole, 'bout the size of a small button, so it wasn't that bad. Still, why did there need to be POINTY rocks in the water?) and had to be in a Hospital, but that's not really important. XD On a positive note, I'm on a steady road to recovery now. I was brought in before it got too bad, and according to the doctors, as long as I take it easy, I should be patched-up within the month. Except my leg, ankle, and wrist, apparently, those will take a while, meaning that everything must now be saddled on backspace and lefty. XC But those should heal eventually, too. During this time of being bored to tears on a bed with nothing to do besides watch shitty TV and waiting for replies to e-mails, I wrote this chappie up and frequently edited it with my left hand and thesaurus Sooo... here it is – Again, I profusely apologize for its absence, but despite my fleeting writer's block, my left wrist would start hurting after a while because of overuse, and... Gah... My dear Rebels of Taciturnity, I was so pissed, you have no idea... Well, here it is. Bleeeh. I'm definitely going to come back later and fix this up better, but you'll have to deal with this train wreck for now.**

**Thanks to Guest for being super supportive and HotChocolate in Summer for reviewing. :P Now, that said... I decided to toss in some action, so hopefully you might forgive me for the wait. : )**

**...**

They were in the calm of the storm now, and all was still. Within the stale air swirling about in the earthly gravitational pull, the acrimonious cold chimed a silent call across the decayed space, it's frosty ballad delicately lacing around the bodies lingering within it, like the ripples disturbing objects on the surface of a pool. Invisible ice lingered in its touch and airborne frost its breath. But within that frigid malady, pulsated a lyricless hymn that rendered it impervious. It was silent, unknown to cold, yet varying degrees of it bubbled inside most of the men standing in the decaying walls anyway. The hymn had many names, but it's favoured and most simple one was a sweet little thing called pride. It was small, but it nestled within the majority of the men's chests and roasted like a building blaze to keep them from falling over from the fatigue of the passing adrenaline rush. The men had succeeded. And that was something to feel good about - T'was a strong aura, but sadly, it was too elusive for the man in the goggles, who stood impervious as it dripped softly along the tender rims of the goosebumps littering his arms. It almost took him out of the near-trace the flood relief brought upon him, but it was only up to his ankles, as his mind was only beginning to process the calm of the moment. Unlike his comrades, all that trickled through him was the tracing driblets of concern. He stood lost in the ceased flow of time as the Electrocardiography device's simplistic tune danced past the soft corridors of his ears, the retro beats resonating with the continual, serene pulses of the heart he'd just salvaged from Death's icy, skeletal hands. Hesitant fingers fixing his goggles, the Engineer's hat swayed at his side, his sweaty hand holding the damp plastic in a loosening vice. He hadn't done anything like that before - saving a human life. A hush of cold air swept along the goosebumps again, almost cutting through his skin and into his static concern for his patient. A hope that he'd be right to do this made itself clear through the unnoticed, tender sheen against his tired eyes. Regardless, the Infirmary lights still shined, and the kid's lungs were taking in smidgeons of the cold oxygen circulating around them all, as normal lungs did.

Among the men stood the Spy, still clothed in his expensive suit of polyester, the threads sharing the precise shades of crimson across the luxurious, well-fitted coat. The sleeves of his suit rustled as he solemnly crossed them over his chest, silver eyes brightened from the shine of the overhead lights. Despite the fact that the climax had passed, and he was among the prideful, the Frenchman was still somewhat tense with the whole situation, something slightly out of character for him. Not like anyone noticed.

"...So, he is going to live, zhen?" he asked, eyes distant as they shined behind the trail of cigarette smoke coming from the Sniper's stance nearby, "Our efforts bore fruit?"

The Medic nodded. "Ja, seems so. I still haff to see to his infection, but regardless, he'll most likely make it. Unless someone goes out zheir vay to kill him, just give or take a few days, und he'll be valking."

The Engineer silently placed his hardhat over his sweating crown. "Well, that's a relief," he murmured, "Guess... We all did half-decent job, huh?"

"Yup," nodded the Sniper with a heartening smile, a small cloud of smoke creeping skywards from his lips.

Then the Sniper kicked the Spy to the ground.

The Engineer wasn't sure how wide his eyes went, just a fairly good length. The Frenchman's dress shoes slipped along the floor spectacularly, slipping outwards as his trim frame crashed against the concrete and ruffled his perfect suit against the ground. The Spy made no sound as he lifted himself up to a sitting position, his expression numb as he lifelessly pawed the section of his stomach where the Sniper had left a footprint, as if he hadn't felt it, or was silently trying to process what had just happened.

"Care t' explain why th' newbie was all by 'imself, spook?" interrogated the Sniper as he crossly nursed his cigarette, fists angrily clenched at his sides.

"_Comment osez...?"_

"Oi asked a question, spook," said the Australian as he tucked his grimy hands into his pockets, "Don't go speakin' in fancy. Answer it."

The Spy just stared at the Sniper for a full forty seconds, dumbfounded. Then, the crisp cloth encasing his face scrunched in tune with his rage, and with a brief snarl, he tackled the marksman by the neck, yelling at him in French while they rolled along the ground, like violent toddlers, much like the brawl the afternoon prior.

"Feh. Again... How redundant," calmly observed the Medic as he watched the Spy pummel the Sniper in the face, "...Yet wholly entertaining..."

The Engineer just stared at the two of them, an oddly deadpan expression on his face. "... ...Doc? Ain't ya kinda obliged ta break 'em up, or something?" he asked, quietly interlacing his digits, "Ain't it... _Stupid_ ta have a fight in th' Infirmary?"

"Shhhh, meine dumme Texan Freund." hushed the Medic, a smile stretching along his slightly wrinkled face as he watched the brawl, "Zhis is amusing."

A sudden touch of warmth brushed against the Engineer's side, and he turned to face it – discovering the presence of the Pyro in its dusty, flame-resistant attire and plastic mask - both cast with varying gentle sheens from the glow of the Infirmary lights. The jovial enigma stood straight and perky, rubber gloves gently cupping a slightly burnt box of crayons, and optics shining perpetually from the lights' glow. "Mmmphmaha!" it boldly stated, raising its index finger as if to help prove some kind of point.

"Where th' hell did you come from?" asked the Engineer.

The Medic slapped his rubber-gloved hands together as his signature Cheshire-Cat grin came to his aged face. "Ah, Pyro! Punctuality embraces you!" he grinned, "You're just in time - Zhis fight is getting interesting. You don't suppose you could go fetch us some popcorn, could you?"

The Pyro looked at the cryptic doctor with a cock of its plastic-encased head.

"Mffmor?" is questioned, tilting its elastic-y frame as it enquired, "Muphermaff?"  
(Popcorn? What's that?)

The Engineer grimaced, lacing his arms over his chest with knowingly foolish concern. He wondered how many times he'd need a reminder that this place was nuthouse.

"...Kay... ...Ah'm gonna go now..." he muttered, quietly stepping around his fellow, loud teammates and heading towards the door. His calloused hands brushed against the soundproof metal... But he cocked his head back for a second.

The kid was still stationary as his scrawny frame was sprawled back-down on the table, the pus from his shoulder beginning to creep along the clammy skin of his exposed, emancipated chest. His lungs were enlarging and shrivelling to near extremes with every gulp of air, the breathing made up of quiet rasps, lips cracked from the dryness, and his angular eyebrows twitched under the stiff locks of hair spread over his forehead, discomfort most probably caused from whatever haunting dreams were plaguing his fragile cranium. The Texan felt pity as he saw the kid locked down onto the table, doomed to insentiently drift along whatever shallow void the morphine had thrown him in. But his eyebrow rose as he noted something.

The kid's hands and lower arms. Or rather, what was on them.

The heat of the moment had to have blinded him (he had no idea how he could've missed them) but there they were; Long, detailed chains of untainted ebony ink, weaving along his hands and arms. The lowest of the upper limbs were enveloped by distorted snakes, all crafted of illustrated wires and needle-sketched electronic circuitry. The dark inscriptions had to have been conceived by an utter master of tattooing needles, as the sheer complexity of the circuitry designs were utter marvels. They twisted and turned, jutted edges and slick curves systematically arching around the thin appendages with an unidentifiable, yet clear pattern for his mind to click together. Something rubbed him the wrong way about the brands, though. Some odd feeling in his gut. That, and the whole situation had an odd smell to it. Then again, these were the Gravel Wars... The kid could've been from outer space, and that probably would've been seen as normal, for all he knew.

The Engineer was drawn out of his thoughts upon perceiving the squeak of the sound-proof Infirmary doors being opened, and everyone going silent as a guest came in.

The Texan, slowly, turned to see Miss Pauling's exasperated face poking out from behind the doors, irritation sparkling against the dark rings composing her irises from behind the pristine cat-eye glasses. Loose strands of her hair sloppily cascaded out of the former bun that had once clasped so tightly around the soft strands, and a small bruise was on her eyebrow. He also noted that there was a tear in the bottom of her skirt as well, which was also surprising. Very out of character for the lady.

"...Howdy, Miss Pauling..." muttered the Texan, "Uh... You looked like ya tried ta nap in th' path of a stampede... H-"

"Just _what_ is going on in here, Engineer?" she demanded, a warning note of wrath floating merrily along her thinly-veiled threat.

"Calm down," the Spy attempted to console from the floor, tone calm despite the fact that his fingers were laced around the Sniper's neck, "Nozing much happened. We just-"

"You just _what,_ exactly?" bade the Overseer, "Came gallivanting into the base with some perfect stranger? Without bothering to obtain my approval?"

"Uh... Well, Miss Paulin'... Ya saw us run in with him, and besides makin' a face, ya didn't act on it or chase us... While in th' heat 'a th' moment, we figured it was alright. 'Sides, why didn't you ask before?" asked the Texan.

_"Because,_ while I was in pursuit of you, the Soldier suddenly instigated a session of fifty questions to prove how, 'patriotic,' I am," she growled, "He refused to let me go until I had correctly answered which day _Father_ Washington's birthday was on. Once that was finished, the Demoman suddenly states that I was conspiring with the devil, and pounced at me. I attempted to leave, but he tried to stop me by grabbing my skirt. He didn't attempt to peek, but it wasn't enjoyable. Add the fact that he made the both of us topple over as well, and I believe you'll have an idea as to how I feel this day has been going. Now, that my moment of exposition is over, tell me what's going on in here. Did you _really_ run in here with an outsider? Tell me, Engineer."

The Engineer twiddled his fingers.

"...Umm..."

"Ja," boredly replied the Medic, "Rushed right in vith zhe Kind. It vas pretty stupid off zhem, if you ask me."

"_Why would you-?!"_ the Overseer began, before the Texan grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Calm down, Miss! He's only a kid! Doc had him tied so he can't do nothing!" he explained, "He could be a... I dunno, another RED who got lost or somethin', fer all we know."

"Yeah - or a pissed-off BLU who escaped th' Stronghold," snarled the Sniper, sunglasses cracked from where the Spy had struck. The Spy's slick gloves rolled into a fist and struck him again.

"Silence," he ordered, eyes flickering in his dour tone.

"Wanka..." frowned the marksman, casually folding arms behind his head.

Miss Pauling frowned as well. "May I see this kid you rescued?" she asked, unamused.

The Engineer stepped back and pointed to the near-dead boy on the table, who of which was still unconscious with at least seven snow-white birds dog-piled on his chest, near all of them pleasantly preening their bleached wings. With the exception of one of taller, thinner ones staring right in his face, cocking its head somewhat as it casually observed.

"Sokrates, unterlassen," ordered the Medic, "Wahrscheinlich hat er uns nicht mag ihn beobachtet. Ich glaube nicht, dass er schätzen Sie tut so gut. Gehen."

The bird looked over at the doctor for a moment, before fluffing up its feathers and fluttering away to the shadows of the rafters above. Quietly, but not at all timidly, the Overseer wandered into the chilly room, her black shoes treading the concrete with an air of authority, almost making the Engineer forget her age. Miss Pauling's stopped by the table, anger on hold for a minute as a confused frown came on her face.

"So... How much dough's gonna be detracted from our paychecks?" pleasantly asked the Sniper, ignoring the Spy's hands still wrapped around his neck.

Miss Pauling hovered still, eyebrows creased as if she was attempting to solve some sort of puzzle. The Engineer understood entirely. This wasn't normal. ...Not to him, anyway. Her arms soundlessly crossed under her chest as she stood, mute. Slowly, the girl turned back towards the others, uncertainty clear past the sheen of her glasses.

"...Possibly, none," she muttered, still in thought, "I think... I've seen this boy's file before. ...I'm going to check the mainframe to see if he's listed anywhere. If he is, well..."

"Zhe universe is fucked," smiled the Medic, "Doomed, to forever go in circles."

The Sniper frowned,. "...Whot th' fuck, doc? ...You _still_ on valium, or something?"

"I do not zhink myself to be, but if you zhink am, I can't stop you," the Medic stated, "If you don't vant to hear my ramblings, zhat's fine."

Miss Pauling looked at the Medic for ten solid seconds before continuing. "...Right... Erm, I believe we'll be capable of handling all this accordingly, whether he's RED, BLU, or an Outsider," she murmured.

The Medic folded his arms behind his back, slightly humoured. "Vell, _if you say so..."_

"...If this combatant's a BLU, or an outsider," Miss Pauling continued, "We'll keep him locked in the Incarceration Cell within the lower levels, and send him back to the Stronghold before we relocate, where he'll be at the mercy of the Higher-ups. If he's RED, then we'll restore him back to upmost health and keep him until... Again, we'll have to see what the Higher-ups say when we arrive at the Stronghold again. He'll probably get placed within a different Unit," she said, "I strongly advise that none of you ever do something like this again unless you're absolutely sure the ones you're saving are within our employment, but I will let it slide this time."

The Sniper chuckled, "Heh... So, Shelia's a newbie, too..."

"_Excuse me?"_ asked Miss Pauling, slightly abhorred.

"Never miond," smirked the Australian, adjusting his shades from the floor with a calm smile, before looking right up at his opposing Class, "...Hey Spook!"

"Oui?" growled the Spy.

"Yer shoelace's untied!" he cheerily smiled – before kneeing his gut. With furious anger, their fight rekindled.

"VA TE FAIRE FOUTRE!"

"HA! YOU HIT LIOKE A BLOODY SCHOOLGIRL, MATE!"

"Whu- NOT AGAIN! STOP THAT!" Miss Pauling shouted.

"Wer hat gesagt, man benötigt, um ein Erwachsener in einen Krieg zu gehen? Hey, Tritt ihm in die Eier!"

"_Croo?"_

"Spielt es eine Rolle, Isdore?"

"Aw, _did oi get your suit all dirty, Spoo- _GAH!"

"Heh, not nearly as dirty as your cheek – what remains, anyway."

"_You.._ _..Fuckin'.. WANKA!_ DISGRACEFUL!"

"You never said knives weren't allowed. Do wish to lose your entire nose, monsieur?"

"Oh, YOU CALL THAT POINTY LOCK-PICK A KNIOFE? HERE – THIS IS A KNIOFE!"

Miss Pauling gaped. "STOP IT!"

The Engineer felt his blood run cold as he saw his 'friend' take out the same knife he'd brought out at the Station to save his life. Only now, both of them were going down. Screw not lifting a finger – he had to do something about this at least. The Texan ran forward -

- only for a hand to grab his shoulder and turn him towards the door.

The Engineer glowered, bewildered, and looked into the rounded spectacles of his interloper. The Medic casually walked him away, a humble hand moving him towards the steel gate of the Infirmary and away from the would-be massacre, completely unphased.

"Doc! Why're you...?! They're gonna kill each o-!"

"Zhey're fine; I have it under control, Herr," assured the Medic over Miss Pauling's yells in the background, "You don't have experience vith violent idiots like I do. Besides..." he paused as they reached the doors, "You have a task."

The Texan's eyebrows creased in his confusion. "Huh?"

"Herr Demoman told me to tell you zhat he has a message for you, apparently," elucidated Medic, adjusting his glasses.

The Engineer frowned, confused. The drunken Scotsman? He'd barely interacted with the alcoholic. What could the Demoman possibly have to say to _him_ out of all the capable men in this joint?

"...What message?" he asked, suspicious. Something about all this held a foul odour.

The Medic gave a half glance to the people lingering in the room, before lowering his voice for the Texan, upper back slightly slouched to meet the Texan's height halfway.

"It seems fairly simple," explained the doctor, expression indifferent, "Apparently, he vants you head to zhe armory at about 1:50 und vait for him, or somesing. For some reason, he vishes to pass zhis so-called message onto you zhere... Vhatever it is. He never told me. It seemed rather important, zhough. ...He also threatened to blow me up if I didn't tell you to go. Having our explosives expert constantly out for me is wearing thought, so... Ja," the doctor shrugged, "I told you. Now, he can leave me alone."

The Engineer creased his eyebrows, sea green eyes contemplating the information. This seemed highly unusual... What did the Demoman want with him?

"...Ah _guess_ ah'll see what he wants?" offered the Engineer, slightly sheepish. What could this be? An assassination attempt? An interrogation? A message that one of them was a traitor? That he was really a Spy all this time and needed him for a mission, or something else currently wasn't thinking of?

The Medic simply shrugged again, "Zhe choice is yours. I, personally, don't care what you do."

The Engineer was going the respond, when the steel doors shut in front of him with a silent slam, leaving him all alone in the hall.

Quietly, the Texan stood, isolated on the concrete floor, slightly warmer air welcoming from the Infirmary. With no further words to say, he quietly slipped his goggles over his sea green eyes, and walked away, hoping this wouldn't kill him.

(-)

In the pale starlight beginning to bath the Ravines, waves of dull orange rocks flourished, as if a metropolis of rising stone. The cliffs and plateaus were almost like ruins, the life trapped within its walls fleeting and hidden from the sharp, lifeless grains of sand floating on the nightly breeze. The walls formed a masterful labyrinth, filled with grand nooks and crannies littering throughout the massive space. In one such cranny, a rectangular, recently put-up RED Teleporter rested in a small corner, all by itself. The device was dormant, its only signs of being alive consisting through its soft hum, as if singing itself a small lullaby to comfort its small, inconsequential existence. The small screen resting on one of its four, narrow sides emitted a soft glow and displayed its life signs, showcasing its self-reliant battery at full power and its measly, yet decent Level 1. Status. It wasn't showing off to anyone, it was just quietly waiting in the shadows, insentiently humming away for nobody but the tiny lizards hiding in the cracks above to hear.

But then a new sound interrupted its choir. Footsteps.

A shadow suddenly waltzed into the small alcove, tall and threatening with a gleaming knife in hand. The cold sheen of the blade reflected in the shadow's eyes, cold chestnut circles flashing in frigid fortitude. The Teleporter's guest stepped into the small cave, poised and lethal as the small machine continued to quietly sing to itself. The shadow took out a small, computer-like device as the Teleporter came into the line of its frame's cold shade, its miniature glow being the only thing keeping it from falling into complete darkness. A gloved hand reached down and opened a panel on the transportation device, silencing the humble device with a mere tug of its wires.

(-)

With a slam of the door, the Spy was beginning to realize just how puerile the last few days had been.

Thoroughly unimpressed, the slim Frenchman boredly stood in the murky room, his tongue acing to taste smoke as he studied the concrete painting his surrounding walls. Dank air showered over his exquisite suit, and iron bars lined the door at his side – a mere lock preventing him from walking out. Shame all his tools had been confiscated, otherwise he could've picked the rusty deadbolt in seconds. A grimy mattress that seemed to have seen its own form of war rested on the ground, next to small puddles composed of the water leaking down from the ceiling. The drips echoed across the space, a somber feel to place, the unprofessional scribbles of genitals in the walls aside. The Sniper stood in an identical cell right beside his, filled with the same unappealing crap and the same dour tone. The thought of remaining there for the next two days was unappealing, but the Spy supposed he only had himself to blame for flying of the handle. A price for his unprofessional behavior, even given the circumstances. Despite the fact that this was on level with being sent to one's room after getting into trouble.

"Miss Pauling, all we did was kick each other in the balls a couple tiomes," whined the Australian next door, "Me an' moi mates did that all the tiome back 'ome. It was nothing big, really."

The teenaged Overseer was unphased as she leaned her petite frame against an old, wooden potato barrel before their cells, torn skirt brushing against her crossed knees and her dark hair near-blending with the bleak walls an inch behind her. She was a bit of a mess, in light terms. "Nearly every thread of that information was fabricated, Sniper."

"...Well, me and moi _imaginary_ friends would kick each other in th' balls all th' tiome back 'ome," stubbornly corrected the Sniper, "Anyway, could ya let us go? ...Please?"

"Sniper, your file states you've had a case of schizoid personality disorder since you were six years old. I'm no psychologist, but I believe complete isolation is what you would've enjoyed as a boy, yes?"

The Sniper narrowed his eyes from behind his sunglasses – which would've been threatening, had it not had been for the smiley-faced Band-Aid leeching to his cheek. "Aion't a disorder, sheila," he growled.

"Your argument is still void," replied Miss Pauling, arms stalwartly crossed from her stance a mere six feet away from the doors to their cells, her shadow creeping up the brick walls. "You breached protocol, and directly disobeyed me. I told you to stop, you wouldn't, and now, you get to stay here for the night," she glowered, "It's a touch juvenile, but then again, that makes it all the more fitting. Two days down here will serve you well, I believe."

With a small curtsy, the Overseer marched over to the steel steps lining the way upwards and professionally retreated from the two contained assassins. The Spy sighed as he looked around his dreary cell. No food or clean water for forty eight hours. He'd been through worse, but this wasn't his personal idea of fun. Had he been left his knife, he could've scribed a drawing into the concrete walls, but he was left with absolutely nothing. No, all the Frenchman could do was sit tight and wait down there. ...With only the Sniper for company. ...He could already feel the migraines coming.

"Y'know what my biggest problem is with these cells?" spoke the devil from his spot right next to his cell.

"Whatever could it be?" dryly asked the Frenchman as he independently seated himself on the flooring. There was no point in standing, really.

"There's no way _not_ to wake up with a stiff back," answered the marksman's thick accent, "Rioght annoying, it is."

"Is zhat not what zhe mattresses are for?" questioned the Spy, silvery eyes distantly roaming the soulless walls of concrete.

"Oi'd use 'em, 'cept oi've yet to be in the radius of one that doesn't smell lioke it hasn't seen its fair-share of brutal romantic conquests," answered the Sniper's secluded voice, "Rather not lie on something lioke that, thanks."

The Spy softly chuckled to himself, a tad humored. "You'd know what _zhat_ smells like?"

"Oi'm not just a lonely bushman who hides out in the shrubs all day, Spook. I've dozed away with women, occasionally."

"I've bed several women, and I do not recall zhere being such a scent from zhe sheets," smirked the Spy as he leaned his lithe frame against the wall of the cell, "At least – a scent zhat one would _need_ to get close enough to smell before."

"Hahaha... Fuck you," growled the Sniper. With that, and a small, soft note of the Spy's satisfied laughter, the conversation ended.

Then, suddenly, the potato barrel across from them shook ever so slightly.

The Spy blinked in surprise, and rubbed his eyes in shock, wondering if the shadows were playing tricks on him. He'd spent a good portion of his life in shadows, making him accustomed to the occasional trick... But that was bizarre. He hesitantly brought himself to stand on his dress shoes and looked over at the wooden container again, puzzled. Suddenly, the barrel quivered again – an audible gulp of surprise coming from the Sniper's cell nearby, confirming what the Spy saw. Quietly, the Spy slowly began to back away into the cell, mind flooding with questions about what the thing in the barrel could be. Before his mind could start pouring out theories, however, he was answered by none other than the Medic popping out like a merry jack-in-the-box, a mad grin on his dirty face.

"Hallo, meine Herren!" he greeted, a potato atop his head as his bloody hands loosely gripped the wooden rim of the barrel, "How goes zhe imprisonment, hmm?"

The Spy gaped, sleeved arms limply hanging at his sides as he struggled to process what was in front of him.

"Hi doc. ...Whot th' FUCK are you doing in th' basement?" asked the Sniper, "In a POTATO BARREL, _OF ALL THE BLOODY THINGS TO HIDE IN?"_

"My birds proposed it," shrugged the doctor, taking the potato off his head and nibbling the top of it for a moment, "Sooo...? How are we?"

"Shouldn't you be... Oi dunno... Supervising the kid in yer Infirmary?" asked the Sniper, dumbfounded.

The Medic rolled his eyes, "He's fine. Zhere's nozing more for me to do in zhere, so I figured I'd chat vith you," he looked up from his potato for a moment, staring intently at the Sniper before gaining a small smile. "...Here, have a potato!"

Before the Sniper could react, the Medic abruptly lobbed the vegetable through the bars of the cell door and struck the lanky assassin right in the face, causing the marksman to stumble backwards in shock as the potato landed on the concrete.

"WHOT TH' F-"

"Tschüs!" chimed the Medic as he hopped out of the potato bin and gleefully skipped up the stairs, the last thing to be seen being a flip of the near-perpetual tail of his white coat as he disappeared through the metal door out.

"...Whot was-?" asked the Sniper, the Spy shaking his head.

"I 'aven't zhe slightest clue."

For the next ten minutes, all that lingered down there was silence.

(-)

The Scout wasn't sure how long he'd been down there, sedated and coldly swirled up in his own psychosis, but he had a feeling that it'd been long enough. But then again, his blanketed thoughts had provided a comfortable perch for his psyche to rest on, so he wasn't completely sure. All he knew was that the blackness around him had begun to feel quite dull as it continually wrapped around his limbs and forcibly held him in place. The youth felt as though all time had practically stopped for him as he slumbered in the dreamless fog and underwent the experience of monitoring his fractured existence drifting in the expansive void of his mind - pieces of his cognizance sparkling faintly from under the serpentine waves of the anesthetizing sea. An exterior chill slipped through his unmoving eyelids and saturated his brain in a cool, watery sensation, gaining a shiver from his lithe frame. Endless, fleeting seconds ticked past him, and his psyche began to piece itself together somewhat, listlessly floating adrift towards the surface past the cold undertows and diluted mental barricades. But the higher he floated to the surface of the dark water, the more the pressuring blanket gradually began to shift into a faded, fragmented world of memories, the seas twisting and churning with every inch he ascended. New images behind his eyelids formed, all precipitously swamped with the pelting rains of cheap bullets. Air whistled as the tiny fragments of death cut through the invisible blanket, all of them twinkling like vicious stars in the harsh sun and flying this way and that in chaotic patterns. The metal coiled and spun, soaring off like flocks of shapeless butterflies into the great nowhere beyond his amorphous consciousness and leading the way for a dreary, industrial landscape to rise beyond the lightless horizon, before slipping away behind it again without a trace. Knives, coupled with syringes, swept themselves along the memories, often followed by piles of bodies and a great coldness that chewed feverishly into his skin. His conscious mind, in its pain, desperately fought between the hostile waves of discordant reflections and the desiccated rasps corralling filtered air into his lungs, unsure of which reality he would eventually sink into amidst the turmoil. His stiff fingers slipped along a surface that was both cold and smooth, like ice, his mind too drugged to question whether it was real or not. All the boy felt was cold, a numbing wave splashing against his nerves, drowning out all sensation in him besides a sickly feeling slowly rising in his stomach, and the churning tides of disordered memories dripping along his drugged brain.

His muscles began reawakening, and before he knew it, he'd begun to pick up on sounds from outside his mental fabrications – gentle beeping noises that would linger for a little while before being hushed away by the soft choir of fluttering birdwings, before singing again. Enigmatic reverberations, to be sure. His ears' rounded edges allowed the noises to slip along their soft exteriors and pass through his eardrums, a flowing silence intersecting every few seconds before slipping away again without a trace. The raspy song of his inhalations soon joined this as well, though the tune seemed... Wrong to him, as did the taste of the air. His respiratory functions sounded like snake's instead, the Scout only requiring a forked tongue to add to the hissing noises of the oxygen sliding in and out his scratch-littered throat. The air was being forced in, and tasted far too pure. It felt raw within his lungs. Something was sitting tightly on the cartilage of his nose as well, cutting off outer air from his chin to his cheeks, but he wasn't sure what it was. A mumble left him as he struggled to get up, but he was unable to, as the steely rungs encasing his slim biceps and anesthetized legs were unmoving as they held him downwards. But the boy didn't understand the currently-preforming purpose of the iron rings, so he disgracefully squirmed against them anyway, mind finally incited enough to question where he was.

A dove's chant curdled along the air as the Scout finally regained the ability to raise his eyelids. Quietly, they were forced open, leaving him unpleasantly staring through the sticky membrane slathered over his retinas, a substance that blurred everything perceptible. His eyes were stinging, screaming mutely at their owner to be shut, but the Scout refused to listen to the mutual request. He needed to know what had happened to him. Bright lights sunk into his frosty eyes, almost breaking through the morphine shielding his senses as they casted an enigmatic silhouette over numerous birds flocking in the rafters above him. They were really pretty. He wanted to talk to them, but no words would roll out of what he realized was a cloudy oxygen mask laced around his chin. How'd that get there? His mind was stranded without direction, lost within the fabricated walls a great maze as it went in instinctual circles. He winced as another wave of filtered air blasted against his cheeks, sending another upsurge of pain to nip at the insides of his lungs. The numbing waves that had submerged his nerves were steadily beginning to withdraw, leading way for the nauseous feeling in his stomach to rise higher. He didn't want to lie down anymore.

But his reach outstretched his grasp, and he found himself firmly tied down. But, even drugged, the Scout didn't like lying down. He wriggled his left arm about, pulling and squirming it this way and that, interfering with the circulation and –

_Pop._

He looked over, surprised that his arm had been liberated so easily. Clumsily, he moved it around somewhat, anxiously clenching and unclenching his hand, as if scared it was an illusion of some kind. He poked his own face and traced shapes through the crisp air, confirming that – yes – it wasn't any form of trickery.

It'd been ages since he'd cracked a smile - even a drugged one.

Somewhat happy, the first thing the boy did was rip off the said mask in a style as aggressively as his thin arm could, and took in a long breath of real, non-filtered oxygen. The oxygen filling the room was disgusting and tasted of nauseating chemicals, but he didn't care. At least it didn't hurt. His arm fell back to the cold table to help support his weight, frosty eyes looking at the salve leaking into his other arm. He instinctively tugged it out with a vengeance, throwing the needle to the floor. No more needles – not for him. He was awake now, and he was in control.

All he had to do was free the rest of himself and kill whatever BLUs were wandering around. That was simple enough, he drunkenly figured.

(-)

The Pyro wandered through the empty halls of the RED Base, its shadow twisting around the floor a mile under the water pipes on the ceiling, whistling a cheery ditty that had played on the talky-box earlier. A sweet song about magic and... Whatever love was. The Pyro loved magic, and although it was unfamiliar with the term _love,_ it thought the song was nice anyway. At the merriest volume its hidden lips would allow, it (poorly) mirrored the notes of the melody as it skipped along the grey, cement-like carpeting underfoot. The flickering lights keeping its shadow alive guiding the jovial enigma's path as the Pyro held a small stack of sheathed corn with firecrackers strapped to them in its arms, like they were fragile critters to nurture and care for. While skipping, the enigma pondered what would happen if it mixed a pile of turtleneck sweaters with an endless sea of bubble-gum in a forgotten pocket of space-time, becoming a tad absorbed in the scientific question. But then it paused in its tracks as the idea grew. Standing among the walls, the Pyro began querying itself. Would the pocket need to be forgotten by all, or would the Pyro be allowed to remember? It probably wouldn't. But... Then how would the Pyro remember to check on the pocket once the mixing was done? Perhaps it would tie a ribbon around its finger? The Pyro was highly unsure. This idea was quite puzzling!

_... ...! I know! I'll talk to the Bucket Knight about this later! _the Pyro settled with a hidden, jolly smile. The Bucket Knight knew everything. The enigma thought back to the morning earlier when the knight in all his droopy, bucket-headed glory had informed them about the evil 'Catzis' threatening to invade their nation, _He'll know what to do – He always does! He's a little silly, but he's really smart!_

Problem solved! The Pyro stepped forward... But the pleasant moment was cut as the Pyro suddenly sensed a brush of cold air against its suit.

Paused, the enigma's optics shined in the dim light sputtering out of the fluorescents. The thoughts of bubble-gum and turtlenecks suddenly drifted away as if the Pyro entered some almost sort of trace. The corn was silently tucked under a figurative wing as it took out a cherry-shaded, plastic weapon from its holster and placed a boot forward. Ominous breathing slipped out its mask, its expressionless masquerade slowly turning to face varying directions in search of the chill's source.

_Huuuuuuuuu... Huuuuuuuu... _it unobtrusively respired, calculatingly treading the dust. The Pyro's demeanor was suddenly more chilling than frost. A shadow licked along its front, soulless movements guiding its supple, rubber-encased frame. The gun in its fingers threateningly cocked, thick gloves caressing its handle. The Pyro's boots stopped still, and the masked arsonist gazed skywards. The Pyro was the mightiest of hunters...

...And that doleful shadow on the ceiling was the lowest of prey.

The Pyro promptly fired the Flare Gun at the slick being of darkness clutching the pipes - which swiftly moved out of the way for the golden orb of fire to burst into an explosion of twisting, creamy flames on the ceiling. The Pyro reloaded immediately as the shadow slipped down to floor ten meters away, firm combat boots cushioning its fall. The shadow revealed itself to be a fairly tall woman somewhere in her late twenties with short hair and a somewhat thickset frame donned in a navy-blue shirt and black cargo pants. The shadow from the cave earlier.

"I'm going to have to kill you if you get in my way," she warned. The Pyro didn't listen and instead fired again – but this time at the fuse on the ears of corn.

With a muffled yell, the explosive-draped vegetables were whipped through the air, the firecrackers bursting into deafening, radiant eruptions of sparks and a searing downpour of confetti before the staggering woman. The vivid rupture of colour was broken as the Pyro leapt through the multi-coloured sparks, axe raised as it prepared to smite its foe.

The blade of a knife glistened in the woman's fingertips, and her figure slipped out of the way, weighing boots rushing backwards as the Pyro took out the flare-gun again, in its other hand, and fired – the shot exploding into a golden fireball behind her, masking her pale face in shade again. The flare-gun was swiftly substituted with the axe again, and the Pyro swiped at her, the head striking the stainless flat of her long dagger. The woman took a step back and elegantly twisted the blade, causing the Pyro's axe to slide off the edge and throw it off-balance. The Pyro decided that the woman was a BLU Spy as her boot slammed the enigma in the face. Thinking the Pyro was dazed, she tried to plunge the blade into the Pyro's back – but the Pyro's hand grabbed the hand tightly.

The woman struggled against the Pyro's grip, but the firebug was unwavering as it took out the flamethrower on its back – a beast of fire-spewing metal, moulded of black, metal pipes bound together with duct tape, and with a scarlet sheathe (goofy eyes painted on it) over the nozzle. Though slightly awkward, the Pyro's other glove brandished the weapon in its hand.

And pulled the trigger.

A massive stream of luminescent infernos licked the barrel of the flamethrower and cascaded outwards, consuming oxygen as it spiralled across the hall and incinerated the enemy Spy. The flames spun in mid-air, dancing a formless waltz as they sought to incinerate all that stood before them, the BLU Spy facing the full brunt of the lethal surge. She screamed as the fire drenched her frame, a dying scream echoing through the air as the flames coasted across her face, sheathing her body in their extreme heat. With a final twirl of its swirling, massless tail, the Pyro removed its finger from the trigger and held the limp, charred corpse – her body sprawled out on the floor as the blackened bones of her wrist still hung in the Pyro's hand - a small ring of miniature flames poking out from the overcooked flesh. The Pyro aloofly dropped the hand and stood over its neutralized target, observing the results of their spar.

It'd lost the _popcorn,_ though. Darn. It hoped the Medic wouldn't be too angry at it...

The Pyro slung the flamethrower over its shoulder and resumed its walk down the hall – not noticing the golden watch in its victim's hand.

Its boots went one-before-the-other as it continued singing - That is, until it reeled over in pain as it felt a sharp blade plunge into its back.

**A/N: This was clumsy. ^^; I'm sorry, but hopefully next chapter will be better. See ya... Maybe... XD**


End file.
